<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>think of england by chesyre</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24525337">think of england</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chesyre/pseuds/chesyre'>chesyre</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sanders Sides (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst and Feels, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Has Heterochromia, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Has Panic Attacks, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Needs a Hug, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Swears, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders is Bad at Feelings, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders is a Little Shit, Aromantic Logic | Logan Sanders, Artist Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Attempted Kidnapping, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Background Sleep | Remy Sanders, British Character, Caring Logic | Logan Sanders, Chaotic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Conditioning, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders &amp; Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Are Twins, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Being an Idiot, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders In Love, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders is Extra, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders is a Good Friend, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders is a Sweetheart, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Needs a Hug, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders is a Little Shit, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders is a Sweetheart, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Deceit | Janus Sanders Has PTSD, Deceit | Janus Sanders Has Vitiligo, Deceit | Janus Sanders Lies, Deceit | Janus Sanders Needs a Hug, Deceit | Janus Sanders Tries, Deceit | Janus Sanders is Bad at Feelings, Deceit | Janus Sanders is Extra, Does He Swear, Drug Use, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Deceit | Janus Sanders, Eventual Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Hispanic Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Hispanic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Hurt Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Hurt Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Hurt Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Hurt Deceit | Janus Sanders, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Insecure Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Insecure Logic | Logan Sanders, Kidnapping, Logic | Logan Sanders Being an Asshole, Logic | Logan Sanders Has Issues, Logic | Logan Sanders Is A Good Friend, Logic | Logan Sanders Needs a Hug, Logic | Logan Sanders is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Morality | Patton Sanders Tries, Morality | Patton Sanders is a Good Friend, Morality | Patton Sanders is a Sweetheart, Multi, My First Work in This Fandom, Nonbinary Character, On the Run, Panic Attacks, Parent Deceit | Janus Sanders, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s), Past Sexual Abuse, Prostitution, Protective Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Protective Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Protective Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Protective Deceit | Janus Sanders, Protective Logic | Logan Sanders, Protective Morality | Patton Sanders, Psychological Torture, Rated R for Remus, Romantic Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Deceit | Janus Sanders, Self-Esteem Issues, Sleep | Remy Sanders is a Little Shit, Slow Burn, Soft Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Deceit | Janus Sanders, Stalking, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Sympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, Teacher Logic | Logan Sanders, Teenage Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, This Will Get Intense Later On, Trans Male Character, Trans Male Deceit | Janus Sanders, Transphobia, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Underage Smoking, and virgil - Freeform, but that's not as catchy, like holy hell, seriously read the tags</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:02:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,879</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24525337</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chesyre/pseuds/chesyre</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>From the moment he came into this accursed world, he had no identity—only a face and a name that changed so often, he wasn't even sure which one was his <i>real</i> name. </p><p>The first one he could remember was "Andy", then it was "Angel", after that, he was "Ethan". His name always changed depending on the state, or even the <i>county</i>, that he'd find himself reluctantly calling "home", only to ditch before he could even break it in the moment he or Janus caught a glimpse of that stupid orange pickup truck. </p><p>Now he's "Virgil Sanders", seventeen years old. He lives in Florida, rooming with some wackjob wannabe artist and a recovering father in a shithole flat, and his first day of school starts in a few hours. </p><p>Hoo-fucking-ray.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anxiety | Virgil Sanders &amp; Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders &amp; Deceit | Janus Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders &amp; Deceit | Janus Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders (one-sided), Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Deceit | Janus Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Deceit | Janus Sanders/Original Male Character(s), Past Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders/Deceit | Janus Sanders</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>66</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. in the twilight hours of nervous rest</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>tw for Virgil's sailor mouth, a brief mention of adult men leering perversely at a teenager, smoking, referring to a trans character with she/her pronouns when discussing events that occurred pre-transition, alcohol mention, some sexual humor, stalking, a non-explicit reference to abuse, and public transportation. </p><p>That last one was a joke, but the rest aren't. I'm serious, <b>read carefully.</b> This is going to be a bumpy ride for everyone involved, myself included, and I'd never forgive myself if I inadvertently trigger one of you lovely folks over the course of this story. I'll be sure to mark the more explicit stuff in later chapters as well, just as a heads up. </p><p>Thank you for your time and enjoy my dumb writing! ❤️</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> <b>close one's eyes and think of England</b></p>
  <p>
  <i>(idiomatic) To accept (rather than fight)—and distract oneself so as to be able to endure—bad or unwanted sex, or by extension any unpleasant but inevitable experience.</i></p>
</div><hr/><p><br/>
</p><p>Wisps of inky smoke painted storm clouds across the violet sky and he smirked, bitterly. </p><p>   Oh, what he would give to be back up north, where a cool breeze made him feel like flying. But instead, he was forced to deal with fresh sweat stains and clammy skin. With a huff, he brushed aside his damp fringe with an annoyed swipe.</p><p>Tapping his foot in a fit of antsy dour, he glanced around, checked his phone, glanced around, checked his phone...</p><p>Deep down, he knew he had no real reason to be nervous, as this had become routine for him. It was just a learned behaviour of his, is all. When you spend so much of your life running, even the most benign of situations can seen life-threatening. </p><p>Admittedly, this wasn't <i>entirely</i> harmless—a seventeen year old kid sitting alone at an empty bus stop, at <i>night</i>, wasn't exactly comparable to, say, going to the shops or checking the postbox. </p><p>He was well aware of the massive risk he took every time he sat down on that grimy green bench, and it wasn't accidentally sitting in the wads of mushed up chewing gum abandoned by careless arseholes. 

</p><p>The first couple of nights, his first time truly exploring the town to be exact, there were a few lingering dodgy men he'd catch a glimpse at, staring lecherously at him as he stumbled around neighbourhoods and roads aimlessly, the outside world a haze as MCR blasted in his ears on max. </p><p>Despite the inherent risk this vulnerability imposed, the teen wasn't stupid; Janus taught him better than that.</p><p>He always kept his eyes sharp, on alert for any looming shadows or unfamiliar cars that followed him a little too closely. If worst came to worst, he had a switchblade that he had become quite adapt at using, two bottles of pepper spray, a lighter, fingernails he kept extra sharp for the special occasion of jabbing an eye out, and basic self defence skills Janus taught him years ago.</p><p>Now, he had the added benefit of a plus one: an adult both he and his father were friends with—a cheeky barista from a local, small, family-owned coffee shop—who was just as fiercely protective of him and knew these streets like the back of his hand. </p><p>Speaking of...</p><p>With a gutteral sigh, he fished through his pocket and pulled out his phone—ignoring all the other little bits of  rubbish that spilled out—and fumbled with the cracked screen so it would <i>fucking read his fingerprint for once, god dammit!</i> After a flurry of muttered curses, the piece of shit finally responded and granted him access to things besides his home screen for the first time in ten minutes. As "Under Pressure" finished it's ninth loop and began to replay, Virgil hummed along as he checked his messages again. </p><p>Fucking <i>nothing</i>. </p><p>His right leg started to shake. The crunch of his heel slamming against cracked and uneven pavement was loud enough to make him jump, heightened by his music blasting in his ears at almost max volume. He glanced over his shoulder again—still no one. His twitchy thumb soon grew a mind of its own and tapped at the darkening screen repeatedly to keep it awake and alert. </p><p>
  <i>His shift was supposed to end twenty minutes ago! It was only a five-to-seven minute walk to the bus stop, at most! Come the fuck on!</i>
</p><p>And yet there were no calls, no messages, and no replies. His own texts, all seven of them, had gone unread. He sent them fifteen minutes ago.</p><p>Virgil took a long, shaky drag out his cigarette, hoping to block out the pesky buggering thoughts that were sure to come a-knocking soon with the loving flood of nicotine and good ol' MCR. </p><p>The bus would be arriving in five minutes.</p><p>Virgil did many reckless things at night, but riding public transportation with a bunch of strangers, alone, was <i>not</i> something he was going to try any time soon. Not with all faces he had grown, unfortunately, accustomed to picking out these past few weeks. The leering nonces and judgy wankers who apparently had nothing better to do than stare at a lonely teenager in dark clothes and piercings, leeching in their sad piss-stained corners.</p><p>He hated buses, streetcars, and the like—the only reason he had began riding them was because he was somehow convinced by the cheeky bastard that this was a more efficient method of travel as opposed to simply walking. Virgil did see his point, begrudgingly, but reason never stopped the way his heart jackrabbited in his chest whenever a stranger gave him a glance while shoving past his seat, now did it?</p><p>Plus, there was a distinct lack of freedom that he had while walking. Out in the open, he could go anywhere, make any detour he wanted, and breathe in the crisp night air without a care. On the bus, he was crammed in a stuffy tin can stuffed to the brim with people who were just as tired and miserable as he was, with only the nauseating odour of sweat and gasoline to soothe him during its monotonous route.</p><p>There was always that paralyzing thought of one of those strangers that just so happening to get off at his exact same stop not being simply a coincidence, and soon a parade of increasingly worse "what-if" scenarios would follow in its wake and nag at him.</p><p>Yet, pikey tosser Remy Dement insisted it was the 'safer option'. 

</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p><i>"Safety in numbers, babe," he said with a smile and a not too encouraging pat on the head.</i> </p><p>Virgil nearly groaned at the memory. </p><p><i>You could just go back</i>, that stupid voice in the back of his head nagged.</p><p>
  <i>Just go back. Janus will never find out. Remus has your back, remember? You can sneak back in, get some actual bloody sleep for once in your life, and maybe tomorrow, you'll wake up feeling like an actual human being. You know you're careful, you've always been careful, so why risk—</i>
</p><p>He nipped at his reddening bottom lip, gnawing numbly at a piece of skin he accidentally bit a little too much off of, and took a long look over his shoulder at a welcome, if always brief, safe haven. </p><p>Just a few measly street corners away, a dingy block of flats lay beside a flickering streetlight and blended in swimmingly with the alleyway that caged it, decorated in intricately obscene green and red graffiti courtesy a familiar, foul-mouthed culprit. </p><p>That was "home" at the moment: room 609 on, well, the sixth floor, located on the left and at the end of the hallway. The fire escape was right outside his bedroom window, always shut and locked tight—except tonight, where it was open just a crack to allow easy wriggling in and out. </p><p>As much as he hated it, he didn't have much of a choice: the alternative would be fumbling with his keys (his hand always shook) and wrestling with a heavy door that somehow squeaked louder than Remus's bedsprings at its hinges.</p><p>Janus was a light sleeper, even when the alcohol took over, and was insanely protective—not the Virgil could blame him. He was not aware of his son's, let's just call them, "nightly activities", unlike Remus or Remy and for all that was wicked and sullied in the world, Virgil planned to keep it that way.</p><p>It wasn't that the teen was afraid of what would happen to <i>him</i> if his dad found out—he was more worried for <i>Janus's</i> wellbeing and how he would, nine times out of ten, have a fucking heart attack if he knew what his son was doing, let alone that he left without telling him first.</p><p>Virgil's mind briefly flashed back to when he was four years old and they had gone to Walmart to get some light food shopping done.</p><p> He had waddled off to go look in the toys aisle, later on being dragged out his sleep-deprived and hysterical mother, who left and didn't notice her toddler ogling the stuffed animals until almost five minutes had passed. That little stunt earned him tears, a prompt scolding, several hugs and kisses, and a strict seat in the shopping trolley, which promptly turned to strict hand holding once he got too big for a seat amongst the groceries.</p><p>When he was thirteen, he brought up that memory to her for the first time, following a conversation with some short-lived friends he didn't remember the names of.</p><p>Believing it to simply be just another "embarrassing parents" story,  he joking mentioned all the good times he had in the trolley as a child, only to later learn the truth from his glossy-eyed mother.</p><p>During those five minutes, while she was getting some milk, she caught an accidental glance at an all too familiar man—a man who was 'not very nice and hurt mummy <i>very</i> badly'—just some measly aisles away from an unaware Virgil, who was pawing innocuously at a Cheshire Cat toy. </p><p>Virgil felt sick to his stomach at the thought, much like the distinct queasy feeling he got whenever he happened to catch sight of an ugly orange pickup truck in whatever state they had ran to. He hadn't seen it in almost a year now; last time it was in Pennsylvania, where he was Ethan Nathaniel Vaughan and his father was Ms. Delilah Elizabeth Vaughan.</p><p>Still, there were times where a truck would pass by that looked too bright or yellowy of a red and those were the moments where Virgil would always run, fishing for his switchblade or pepper spray at the ready...</p><p><i>That's why</i> this <i>is necessary</i>, was the flimsily excuse he gave to Remus and so many other people before: so he could know all the ways he could get back home and warn his father without risking being followed by that...man. </p><p>Well, that, and the only other option he had to deal with his chronic insomnia was to stay up all night, scrolling through Tumblr and bemoaning the fact that he's was a lonely, single teenager. </p><p>Fuck that noise.</p><p>Deciding that his troubled thoughts were causing him more trouble than they were worth, he sought out a distraction and looked down at his piece of shit phone.</p><p>
  <i>How have only two minutes have passed when it felt like a fucking hour?!</i>
</p><p>His eyes narrowed sharply when he saw a notification from the appropriately dubbed "Coffee Chugging Cocksucker". </p><p>
  <tt><b>heyyy babes!! srry i didn't answer ur calls and all, got held up at work but omw rn so ill see u soon bitch 😉 💋💋💋👌</b></tt>
</p><p>Virgil's eyes rolled into the back of his head. </p><p>
  <i>Sodding wanker!<i></i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i></i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i></i>
  </i>
</p><p>With a growl, he paused his music and thumbed through his contacts for the offending cocksucker.</p><p>As he jabbed his thumb on the call button and that familiar dialling tone roared in his ears, he stared intently at that stupid picture of Remy posing with a Starbucks coffee. His mind was adrift with thoughts of all the wonderful shades of purple and black he was going to make that man's stupid face once he showed up, with those stupid shades and his stupid smug grin... </p><p>A loud and sudden click made him jump and then—</p><p>"Sup?" </p><p>Virgil growled. </p><p>"Yeah! Hi! Hello! Where the <i>fuck</i> are you?!" </p><p>"Whoa, whoa, you to, like, chill for five seconds, girlfriend, okay? <i>Chiiiill</i>..."</p><p>Virgil was gonna punch him in the fucking teeth. </p><p>"I stayed at work a few minutes late to help padre close up. You know I can't stay no to that guy, it's, like, so sad, like watching a kitten cry and stuff-" </p><p>"A 'few minutes'?! Ha! Are you seriously trying to pull my leg, fucker? Your shift ended <i>twenty fucking minutes</i> ago! Did you forget I know your schedule, ya fucking prat?" </p><p>There was a brief pause and Virgil took another long drag of his dying cigarette, waiting for whatever excuse the barista would come up with, his leg angrily twitching at an unsteady rhythm. </p><p>"Well...yeah, true, but there was also a <i>suuuper</i> cute boy who ordered a marocchino right before closing and we kinda clicked. He waited for me when my shift ended and turns out, we, like, have <i>sooo</i> much in common! We're going on a date this Friday, he wants to see the new Hitchcopalucas film and, like, same, girl, same. Hey, by the way, turns out he has a <i>little brother, round your age, if you're up for</i>~" </p><p>"Remy, I swear to whatever demon you sold your god-for-fucking-saken soul to for this ungodly amount of energy at one in the bloody morning, if I don't see your trashy, pumpkin spice chugging, pampered, pillow princess, cum swallowing, slutty arse over here when this bus arrives in the next <i>three minutes</i>, so help me god, that leather jacket you love so fucking much is going to <i>mysteriously disappear</i> during your next shift." </p><p>Remy gasped. </p><p>"You wouldn't dare!" </p><p>Virgil chuckled, flickering specks of ash off of his fingers as he took another hearty drag, the smoke that billowed around him curling into a deceptively angelic halo. </p><p>"Try me, slut." </p><p>A wicked grin stretched across his face as he heard the once soft, just barely audible, footsteps on the other end suddenly get much louder and faster. Ever the arse, he fought the urge to laugh at the whiny groan his friend let out as he started to break for it. </p><p>"Alright! Alright! I'm <i>coming</i>, geez! I'll be be there in, like...ten seconds!" </p><p>Virgil leaned back on the bench, sighing when his back let out a satisfying <i>pop</i> at the sudden movement. He had been slouching for far too long again, it seemed. </p><p>"I'm <i>counting</i>..." </p><p>"Oh, come on!" </p><p>"<i>Onnnne.</i>" He sang, lazily inspecting his nails. </p><p>"Now, wait-" </p><p>"<i>Twwwo.</i>" He could barely contain his own cheeky grin at the blatant annoyance in the other's voice. </p><p>"That's no-" </p><p>"<i>Threeeee...</i>" He purred, rolling the 'r' for dramatic effect. </p><p>Remy huffed. </p><p>"You know, you can be a real bitch, Virge!" </p><p>Virgil left out a dry laugh and watched as wisps of faded black smoke painted streaks across a clear, violet sky. </p><p>"That's the bloody point, sweetheart. Now hurry up before I leave your lazy arse to choke on exhaust fumes." </p><p>"Brat."</p><p>Turns out, Remy wasn't simply 'ten seconds away', but was instead fashionably late, as per usual—plopping down on the bench beside Virgil right as the bus was peeking around the corner.</p><p>He was out of breath, sweatier than the usual Florida denizen, and visibly disheveled. His already usually messy hair had been blown back by his speed and his clothes more noticably ruffled. Yet, he had somehow miraculously managed to not spill a single drop of that precious coffee he always had at the ready. 'A treat from work,' he said when Virgil asked about it once. </p><p>In his glorious three minutes of blessed silence, Virgil had swapped out MCR for Evanescence and had been lazily scrolling through his usual Tumblr blogs before Remy dramatically announced his presence. Slamming his arse down on the bench with the grace of a drunk ballet dancer, he let out a flurry of breathy curses and insults, and smacked Virgil playfully on the shoulder several times for good measure.</p><p>Virgil didn't even bother looking up from his phone as the peppy insomniac rambled on and on about how 'horrible of a friend he was' and 'how cute his date was'. The briefest of glances proved that, yes, it was indeed the only person in the world who would wear sunglasses at <i>fucking night</i> that had graced him with his presence. </p><p>They chatted in those brief seconds, although Remy did pretty much all of the talking, before the bus stopped in front of them with a loud, ear-piercing squeak. Virgil's nose squinched in disgust as the peutred stench of gasoline flooded his senses and was somehow even <i>worse</i> at this accursed hour.</p><p>As Remy practically dragged him onto the hell on wheels, still blabbing on, he took one last wistful smoke and dropped his dying cigarette on the harsh pavement, grinding it under the sharp heel of his boot like a roach whose bloody remains was subsequently smeared across rosy gravel. </p><p>In just a few hours, he would be Virgil Sanders, seventeen years old and starting his first day at a new school and a new, always short-lived, life. </p><p>Now, he was a stranger. Just some punk kid that blended in easily with the crowds and shadows that nobody would dare spare a passing glance at. </p><p><i>Fuck it</i>, he decided long ago. </p><p>He wouldn't want to be anyone else right now.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>My first fic in the TSS fandom! 🎉<br/>Here's just a few things to mention up front</p><p>• As of now, I have no romantic/sexual pairings planned for Virgil. All (or most of, anyway) the relationships will be between the consenting adults. <b>UPDATE: this has been partially changed, for...reasons. See the End Notes of Chapter 4 for more details.</b></p><p>• Both Virgil and Janus are Cockney in this fic, hence the use of some distinct English phrases and terminology scattered about here and there. Roman and Remus are also English, but are more Posh, and the latter's influence in particular led to both Virgil and Janus picking up some of his more...colorful dialect, let's just say. </p><p>• Janus is ftm transgender. Any reference to him with she/her pronouns or with feminine terminology will either occur when discussing something which happened in the past (around a year or longer prior to the story) or by characters that are either unaware, ignorant, or assholes. Since I am a cis female who has no personal experience in this matter, I will try to be as respectful as possible regarding this subject. That said, if, at any time during this fic, I write anything that is incorrect or comes off as unintentionally misleading, offensive, or triggering, <b>absolutely feel free to inform me in the comments!</b> </p><p>• Virgil is Janus's biological child. The father has not been given a name for...reasons. Janus and Asshole McGehee had a, let's just call it, "complicated" relationship and he's been stalking them on/off for the past seventeen years. </p><p>• Remus and Janus are exes. They used to date off/on for a few years before deciding to split up while staying friends. Remus helped raise Virgil during those years, so he takes on the role of a father figure/cool uncle in this story. </p><p>• The characters in this fic are very, <i>very</i> flawed. While everyone in this, which the exception of a choice few, are written sympathiclly, no one is going to be a pure saint. Be prepared to tear your hair out in frustration, because this ensemble cast of little shits is pure dysfunction junction and I make no apologies whatsoever. </p><p>Stay safe in these trying, <i>trying</i> times, lovelies!<br/>Ches ❤️</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. the message i was told was to triumph at</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Virgil and Remy paint the town red and a horny and hungry Remus gets an unexpected phone call.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tw for cursing, sexual situations and humor, discussions that include explicit descriptions of making out, drunken shenanigans, description of alcoholic drinks, a very brief mention of potential spiking and Remus being...well, Remus.</p><p>This was originally going to be one huge chapter, but I split it in two because I'm not a bloody monster. *innocent whistling*</p><p>Oh, and the titles for these last two chapters came from the IAMX song, "Think of England".</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Virgil gasped.</p><p>Water droplets cascaded down his face in slow motion. Opening his eyes, a blank pasty face and blown out pupils stared back through cracks and grime. Gripping the edges of the shaking sink, his knuckles bled white as he stared at his expressionless face in the mirror, gasping like a fish on land. The room throbbed to the pulsing beat outside, the ceiling lights flickered, and the loud moans coming from the stall behind him blurred to a dull crackling fuzz that popped in his ears. He just stood there for a minute, or two, maybe three but probably more, staring at himself and letting the faucet run. He stared at his eyes, large dark pupils nearly enveloping the irises, one slightly more green than the other.</p><p>Wordlessly, he snatched a paper towel that he subsequently dabbed his face with, harshly. The rough and scratchy texture irritated his inflamed skin and the scent of sink water and sex flooded his senses and made his head spin. He glanced at his phone, the cracked screen reading a blurry 2:45, and with one last look at his reflection, he brushed back his damp fringe, sighed, and exited the toilets, shoving his rubbish in his pocket to be forgotten.</p><p>Upon stepping out, his vision was bombarded with flashes of neon greens and purples. </p><p>He squinted through black floaty blobs and pushed past hammered gits who crowded around the toilets like insatiable vultures. More than a few were obviously piss drunk and some of the more grabby fucks tried to literally pull him into their slurred one-sided conversations. Taking advantage of his lanky build, he easily manouvered past them and entered the lions den yet again. The monotonous trap music that seemed to never end continued to blast at full volume; his temples throbbed to the beat. </p><p>He groped his way through the dance floor, squeezing past the people grinding on one another with mummured sorries and 'pardons', until he finally stumbled to the wobbly table where Remy was eagerly snogging with some strange, burly man with a beard—his drink long since neglected. </p><p>Virgil stared blankly for a minute, not surprised in the least. </p><p>When he had left to go splash some cold water on his face and pace himself, Remy had been eagerly chatting up this gent—who he had "accidentally" spilled his drink onto while dancing. </p><p>Of course, anyone who knew Remy knew that <i>that</i> was a big fat fucking lie. That man would rather get shot than waste one drop of whatever precious beverage he had in his unwavering grasp, ranging from his usual coffees and mochas to shots and other fancy alcoholic concoctions. The only way one could get him to spill his drink would be either by paying him or being a moderately to incredibly attractive member of the male population.  </p><p>In Virgil's personal opinion, the guy Remy currently had his tongue shoved down the throat of was of the former category, and it made for a frankly uncomfortable sight—the making out, not the guy himself. Virgil couldn't knock Remy's taste in men while he himself had never had a boyfriend and could only force himself to flirt with only a handful of guys within the last couple of years, guys that he would never see again. </p><p>Rather, he was just...tired. </p><p>Tired of being the world's most uncomfortable third wheel on night's like this. Tired of the same fucking music that played every single night. Tired of the people who'd push past him and scream in his ears and would box him in. Tired of...</p><p>Biting his lip, he tried to not let his mind wonder too much as he heard the muffled moans and sounds of clothes ruffling. </p><p>He glanced up at the ceiling, watching patterns of purple, green, and blue dance and sway to the music. There was a small ringing in his ears and he groaned, throwing his head back to let the numbness take him over. His fingers tapped harshly against his empty glass, the loud <i>CLINK</i> tingling like a bullet to the brain and finally alerting the two lovebirds of his presence.</p><p>"Oh shit—<i>heeey Virge!</i>" Remy waved sheepishly, adjusting his shades and jacket, which had mysteriously been pushed off his shoulders. The stranger, who had been so lovingly shoved off, gave Virgil a nasty glare.</p><p>Virgil rolled his eyes; he had lost any pretense of politeness, manners, or any other basic common courtesy at around 2:00 AM.</p><p>The stranger ignored him and faced Remy, giving him one last sloppy kiss full of teeth and tongues—Virgil's tried to tune out the <i>fucking sound</i>—and whispered something in the his ear that was thankfully inaudible due to the loud music, but left Remy giggling like a virginal school girl. </p><p>The both watched the man stumble away into the unknown, disappearing into the sea of other drunk, horny fucks and becoming yet another faceless blob in Virgil's blurred and spotty vision.</p><p>He turned and stared at Remy, who was obviously flushed despite the dark club lighting and his shades masking  his expression. Viigil's fingers kept tapping against his glass, <i>CLINK-CLINK-CLINK<i>, at an unsteady, unfocused rhythm. </i></i></p><p>
  <i>
    <i></i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i></i>
  </i>
</p><p>"Thought you had a date," he muttered, staring at his so-called friend with a listless look in his eyes. </p><p>The pikey tosser flashed him a cheeky grin and leaned back in his wobbly seat. He popped the cherry that had came with his drink—a cheery Malibu Sunset if Virgil's hazy knowledge of alcoholic drinks served him right—into his mouth and chewed it casually as if it was a piece of bubblegum, shrugging.</p><p>"Not until Friday, babe," he purred in a low voice. Virgil was sure underneath those fucking sunglasses, the wanker was cheekily winking at him and thinking he was oh so clever. </p><p>Remy took a long swig from his half empty glass and muffled alarm bells in Virgil's head immediately started blaring. He slowly blinked, shaking his head to try and get rid of the pesky floaters that crept along his vision, and Remy slammed his glass down with a confident <i>THUNK</i> that made the table shake.</p><p>"That could've been drugged, y'know." </p><p>His mouth felt like the bloody Sahara in the middle of a drought. His dry tongue rolled along the roof of his mouth lazily, and the words tumbled out in a hoarse, gravely and barely coherent mumble. He shook his head and coughed. </p><p>Remy scoffed, tracing the rim of the glass lazily with his finger. </p><p>"Oh, pluh–<i>ease</i> girl! How long have you known me, Virge?" </p><p>"Couple weeks, at best."</p><p>"Then you should know by now," Remy fixed him a pointed glare over the rim of his sunglasses. His expression melted into one of such seriousness one would think he was delivering the news of a loved one's unfortunate passing. </p><p>"That I never, <i>never</i>, EVER let ANYONE t-" </p><p>"Touch your fucking drink," Virgil finished, muttering. </p><p>His eyes glazed over, intensely focused on the patterns the lights made stretched across his glass. Remy smirked cutely, cooing in an obnoxious squeal and cupping his face with his hands. </p><p>"Aw! You already know me so well! That's adorable!"</p><p>"Oh, shut it." </p><p>"But it is! We're," he paused to hiccup and then practically lauched himself across the table to give Virgil some pathetic lopsided excuse of a hug, "such good friends!" </p><p>Virgil huffed and shrugged the limp arm that was draped across his shoulder off. He fixed an annoyed look at the wanker, who giggled and mumbled off into an incoherent, slurred mumbled. He cocked his brow at the sight before him and sighed.</p><p>"We are, huh? Oh, so, is that why in the five fucking minutes I was taking a bloody piss, you not only went and got yourself completely shitfaced but also had your tongue pretty much shoved down the tonsils of some arse-sniffing muppet?" </p><p>Remy scoffed. </p><p>"‘Cuse you, bitch? I'll have you know that you were not in there for five goddamn minutes, nah uh! No ma'am!" </p><p>Virgil only stared back, thoroughly unconvinced.</p><p>"You were in there for <i>soooo long,</i> Virge! I was borrrred! And no one should be bored at a fucking club—well, except for you, no offense, love you, like, lots!" </p><p>Virgil rolled his eyes.</p><p>Remy groaned.</p><p>"Really, Virge, you can't <i>seriously</i> be mad at me for wanting to have a little fun!"</p><p>Virgil shrugged, rubbing his eyes tiredly and desperately trying to ignore the bead of sweat that was slowly inching it's way down the back of his neck. God, when did it get so bloody hot? </p><p>"I'm not mad, you absolute gormless twat. Just...surprised, is all. Really, <i>really</i> shouldn't be at this point, and yeeeet..." </p><p>"And what's <i>that</i> supposed to mean?" </p><p>Virgil's mouth ran on autopilot, opening before he could even think of a decent way to word things in his foggy mind, as he stared off numbly at his empty, dusty glass. </p><p>"No offense, Remy, but you spread your legs for the first bloke on the street who tells you he can, quote-on-quote, 'fuck you to sleep' and you bloody know it." </p><p>Remy gasped scandalously, throwing his head up to his mouth in mock horror. </p><p>For a moment, Virgil was worried that he had offended him, but the parade of self-depricating thoughts calling him a <i>thoughtless arsehole</i> and other slightly less kind names came to a screeching halt when he could, just barely, make out the edges of Remy's swollen lips curve upwards into a playful smirk through his bleary vision. </p><p>"Are you calling me a slut?" </p><p>Virgil numbly felt himself smirk, narrowing his eyes in both a show of tired playfulness and so he could maybe fucking see better. Fucking floaters, making him wanna swat at them. </p><p>"I'm calling you a <i>whore</i>, Remy. A bloody chav. A naffer. A fucking slag with absolutely no standards, who'll gladly let any dodgy minger slam his sweat-stained cock in your arse for an espresso, shamelessly drink it while getting said arse pounded behind some low-rent Starbucks—no wait, not Starbucks, some bloody Starbucks <i>knock-off</i>—and then ask for him to buy you another one immediately once you're done fucking, and in the end, I bet'cha you don't even bloody <i>tip 'em</i>."</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>Remy gasped loudly, throwing his arm over his eyes in a fit of mock despair and nearly toppled out of his seat for it. Virgil snorted, his chapped lips curling slightly into a small smirk, not a smile. </p><p>"How DARE you, Virgil Sanders?" Remy cried out, trying so hard not to fall straight in his arse and balancing himself on the swaying table, which shook and wobbled under his weight. </p><p>"I'll have you know, honey, that I cannot be bought for a fucking <i>espresso!</i> The least, the goddamn <i>least</i>, a guy can do to get a piece this fine ass is buy me a fucking frappé, at the very <i>least</i>. Letting a guy fuck me for a <i>basic fucking espresso</i>..." He scoffed, taking a long sip from his drink. </p><p>"What kind of cheap, low quality slut do you take me for, Virge?" </p><p>Virgil shrugged lopsidedly, still smirking with that unflinching, dull-eyed, pupil-ridden gaze of his. </p><p>"Only the <i>cheapest</i>." </p><p>Remy only hummed curtly in reply, still sipping his drink with a loud slurp. Virgil couldn't help but get a bit peckish at the sight and he glanced over at his empty glass longingly. </p><p>He checked his phone. </p><p>3:05. </p><p>"Hey, tell me," he gestured to his empty glass and glanced over at Remy's side of the table.</p><p>When Virgil had went to the toilet, the tosser had just downed his second Black Russian and yet now was happily getting  plastered on a Malibu Sunrise that the teen swore on old Aunt Patty's grave he did <i>not</i> see before he left. </p><p>"In the supposed <i>ages</i> I was off taking a piss, you didn't happen to order me another water," his fingers drummed lazily against the glass, "did you?" </p><p>Remy paused from his solid thirty second sip and pulled a face, a barely concealed purse-lipped grimace that told him all he needed to know. </p><p>"It, uh," the tosser sheepishly grinned, "it didn't come up in conversation." </p><p>Virgil arched his brow at this.  </p><p>"And yet a Malibu Sunrise did?" </p><p>"Hey! It was on the hou—<i>ohhhh...</i>" </p><p>Virgil chuckled dryly. Remy, even with his shades hiding most of his expression, was staring down at his drink as this sudden revelation dawned on him. The teen reached over and gave the tosser a none-too-encouraging pat on the shoulder. </p><p>"Like I said, a <i>whore</i>," he sighed and stretched, getting out of his seat. Remy smiled and ducked his head bashfully, moving to get up himself. Virgil immediately motioned for him to stop.</p><p>"Don't bother. I'll get it myself. I know where the bar is and you look like you're about to fall over just from sitting down, so there's really no point in sending your sorry arse out there to do anything actually productive. No offense." </p><p>Remy giggled, leaning back in his seat. </p><p>"None taken, babe. You sure you'll be alright out there?" </p><p>Virgil shrugged. </p><p>"Should know this place pretty well by now. Besides, it's not like I'm much of a talker, y'know? I highly doubt anyone would even care enough to, let alone <i>try</i>, to take advantage of me." </p><p>Remy looked unconvinced, and pursed his lips, but kept his obvious thoughts to himself as he took another long sip. </p><p>"Whatever you say, babe." </p><p>Virgil wanted to argue that... that fucking <i>look</i> off of Remy's face, that he was 'practically an adult' and he 'didn't need to be babysat', when, suddenly, something cold and wet and sticky splashed on his shoulder and cheek from behind. It burned against his hot skin and he jumped, cursing loudly while Remy's brows shot up over his glasses. </p><p>Virgil spun around, nearly falling over thanks to an unwelcome wave of vertigo, and he closed his eyes and steadied himself.</p><p>He finally opened his eyes after a moment, sure that once his vision was not a fog of black blobs and neon then he would be able to crack the sharpest, most pearl-clutchingly offensive, cutting-edge remark his hazy mind could come up with at three o'clock in the fucking morning on a Tuesday that would haunt the surely, <i>surely</i> retreating ignorant arsemonger for the rest of their days. </p><p>"What...the <i>fuck?</i>" </p><p>That was all he could muster with a growl, his voice noticably cracking thanks to his dry throat. He cleared it in an attempt to salvage some dignity and rubbed at his eyes with an annoyed and tired sigh when they wouldn't <i>stop fucking blurring</i>. </p><p>"My apologies, sir. I'm afraid that I did not see you there." </p><p>"Yeah, well, next time watch where you're fucking go-" </p><p>Virgil paused when he finally saw the offending ignorant arsemonger. </p><p>He wasn't...what he expected, honestly. </p><p>In place of the usual slurred-speeched, casually dressed, and obnoxiously giggling patron stood a tall,  man with slicked back hair, thick glasses, perfect posture, a half empty glass of a clear liquid clutched properly in his grasp and an unreadable expression. He was dressed way too...<strike>what's the word, (neatly, formally?)</strike> <i>nicely</i> to be just another clubber looking for a good time. He looked like he belonged in a coffee shop during a late night, slugging over a fifteen page essay he spent three solid days editing, than in some low-rent nightclub in downtown Florida with repetitive trap music and incompetent bouncers who'd let obvious underage kids enter without so much glancing at an i.d., with his black dress shirt, waistcoat, and black trousers. The most peculiar thing about this man, Virgil decided, was his eyes: no light reflected in them whatsoever. He looked borderline emotionless with his completely neutral expression, skin that looked sickly pale in the neon green lighting, and eyes that were large and looked <i>black</i>, even up close. </p><p>Before Virgil could even get a word in, the peculiar stranger walked away, leaving the teen standing there with god-only-knows-what soaking through his jacket and his mouth lamely agape. Remy watched it all gleefully, soaking it all in like a goddamn soap opera. </p><p>"Oh, oh <i>girl</i>," he sang and Virgil could practically hear the shit-eating grin he was so obviously donning through his voice alone.  He threw a glare his way and grabbed his glass, imagining that he was chucking it at Remy's stupid teeth. </p><p>"What?" </p><p>"<i>Girl.</i>" </p><p>"<i>What?!</i>"</p><p>"Don't think I didn't see that." </p><p>Virgil rolled his eyes and grit his teeth. </p><p>"Fucking see <i>what?</i>" he growled, knowing and thoroughly dreading the answer. </p><p>Remy laughed, sputtering into a fit of giggles that left him nearly falling out of his seat yet again. Virgil numbly felt his hands clench into shaking fists and his face grow alarmingly hot. God, why was everything so bloody hot? </p><p>"Remy, I swear to <i>God—</i>" </p><p>"You were checking. Him. <i>Out</i>, girl!" </p><p>"Remy, I swear to <i>Satan—</i>" </p><p>"Like you were giving him a full-on, eyes trailing up and down his body while the world goes slow motion and some dumb pop song plays in the background look! Oh, if only you could see <i>your fucking face!</i>" </p><p>Remy trailed off into an incoherent babble of slurred squeals and boisterous laughter. Virgil growled and seriously contemplated chucking his glass at the coffee-chugging cocksucker's head, property damage, lifetime bans, and battery charges be fucking damned. </p><p>"Remy, I swear to <i>fucking Cthulhu—</i>" </p><p>"Oh honey, you know the only god I pray to at night is myself," he wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye with a dramatic flick of the wrist. </p><p>Virgil was sure the little voice in the back of his mind was screaming at the top of its lungs by down, so he closed his eyes tightly, counted to ten, and took a deep breath. </p><p>"I was not, ugh," he gagged on the words, "‘checking him out’. I was just...surprised? I guess?" </p><p>"By how hot he was?" </p><p>"No! By how he was dressed! I don't know about you, but from my knowledge, most people who come out to clubs to grind together and get bloody plastered—" </p><p>He gestured over to the crowd of people on the dance floor doing just so, increasingly becoming a massive blob of neon and shadowy skin to his weary eyes. </p><p>"Don't usually come dressed like they live in the dark academia tag on Tumblr!" </p><p>Remy clicked his tongue, thinking that over with a lazy tilt of his head. </p><p>"Hmm, <i>truuuue</i>, but then again, Virge, your dad dresses like he was plucked out of the wrong century, you dress like the early 2000's threw up on you, and do I even <i>need</i> to say anything about your dad's little not boyfriend?" </p><p>Virgil huffed and rolled his eyes. </p><p>"Whatever." </p><p>"Just saying, you really are the last person on Earth to criticize someone's fashion sense." </p><p>"Whatever! Just...ugh!" Virgil threw his hands up in defeat and started to stomp away, clutching his glass so hard he was almost afraid it would break. </p><p>"I'm going to get some water." </p><p>"'To get some water', or to flirt with the sexy nerd who accidentally spilled vodka on you?" </p><p>"To get some fucking wat-" </p><p>He paused. </p><p>Suddenly realizing the way dark academia man retreated, his blurry, spotted memories recognized that he had went up the stairs...to the balcony...which led to the rooftop...where the bar was at...which was where Virgil was heading...</p><p>...<i>Fuck</i>. </p><p>"Yeah, good luck with that."</p><p>Virgil growled, internally cursing up a fucking thunderstorm, and started to stomp away, desperately trying to filter his jumbled up, tangled 3am thoughts to be <i>fucking water</i> exclusively. He was so focused on thinking <i>fucking water</i> on loop that he almost tuned out Remy calling out to him. </p><p>"Hey! When you're done flirting and you want to leave, just give me a call!" </p><p>He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, holding it up in the air for all to see with an unsteady hand and a toothy, open mouthed, giggly smile. Unfortunately for him, a drunk Remy Dement was also a stupid, stupid, <i>stupidly</i> clumsy Remy Dement. </p><p>His mobile dropped straight into his half empty glass of Malibu Sunrise with a mocking <i>PLOP!</i> </p><p>Remy and Virgil stared at it. </p><p>"...On second thought—" </p><p>"I'll come get you." </p><p>"You'll come get me..." </p><p><br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
</p><p>It was common, and very much (begrudgingly) accepted, knowledge in <i>El Casa De Kingsley</i> that Remus Octavius Guillermo Jaime Kingsley only got up early in the morning to do four things: to piss, to shit, to jack off, or to stuff his face with Totino's pizza rolls. </p><p>So, when he woke up to the lovely sound of his ringtone—the literal sound of nails on a chalkboard—he was more angry and annoyed then startled, because now he was horny, hungry, needed to piss and shit, and was rudely awoken from a wonderful dream about...well, he wasn't quite sure honestly. </p><p>Most of his dreams were a complete blur of nonsense and mayhem and not much else. He was pretty sure this one was ending with a spontaneous dance party to Michael Jackson's "Thriller" during the actual zombie apocalypse in a too small motel room, with all the lovingly detailed gore, confusion, and chaos that entails. </p><p>To say he was annoyed was an understatement. </p><p>Groaning, he forced himself up from his comfortable position on his floor. He took a moment to stretch, yawning and twisting his spine till it popped like a feral cat. </p><p>Smacking his lips and rolling out the crick in his neck, he caught a glimpse of that pesky little phone still screeching away from its loving home on his nightstand, still plugged into the charger. </p><p>Another quick glance showed that Virgil wasn't back yet, which he was honestly thankful for; he loved the kid to death, but he didn't want to have to deal with the angsty teenage shitstorm that would usually be thrown his way because, god forbid, he forget to put his phone on silent <i>again</i>. </p><p>He stood up, scratched at his rug burns, and lazily strolled over to give it a little look-see. </p><p>His screen, a picture of Virgil and him dressed up for Halloween a few years back, told him that it currently 3:23 in the morning and he was getting a call from an unknown number he clearly didn't have saved in his contacts but still looked oddly familiar anyway.</p><p>He rolled his eyes and scoffed. Another late-night returning customer, it seemed. </p><p>He answered.</p><p>"Jimmy? Jimmy, is that you?" </p><p>"Jimmy, baby, listen to me. I so <i>dearly</i> appreciate that you love my sweet mouth so much that you call me instead of that daft, cross-eyed, bleach blonde cow you put a ring on—who's fucking your boss by the way, might wanna get on that—whenever you need to someone to warm up that 10-inch rod of glorious morning wood you're packing, but I keep telling ya this and I'm gonna tell ya again: <i>I don't. Give. Bloody. Freebies!</i> You want me, you gotta be able to afford me! I'm not some cheap arse whore that'll suck your cock for McDonald's, okay? <i>I'm a goddamn, bloody expensive arse whore that'll deepthroat your cock and balls simultaneously for an all-expense paid trip to fucking Disney World and I will take absolutely nothing less from desperate slimy fucks like you, ya hear?</i>" </p><p>There was no reply on the other end, although he could pick up on distinctly hushed breathing and the sounds of a television playing in the background. </p><p>He almost groaned. </p><p>He did <i>not</i> wake up at three o'clock in the fucking morning for lousy, non-interactive phone sex.</p><p>Clicking his tongue, he lazily inspected his nails. As he waited for a response, he scratched nonchalantly at the chipped black paint on his pointer finger. </p><p>He'd have to get Janus to repaint these later; he'd do it himself but the man had a knack for making the process as relaxing as possible—a past job at a nail salon did him wonders, it seemed. Plus, the way his pink little tongue would poke out just slightly past his pretty lips when he was deep in concentration was just too adorable to pass up. God, him and his pink little tongue were so fucking sexy, <i>especially when he'd used that tongue to—</i></p><p><i>No! Nope! Bad Remus! Bad! Down boy! That's forbidden territory! </i>

</p><p>He shook his head. Those were the only thoughts he had strictly banned himself from thinking for the last three years. Still, he couldn't help being <i>fucking horny</i> at three in the morning, the squeak of the bathroom door being closed just outside his room told him that it was currently occupied by the object of his not-desires, and he still had Sir Speaks A Not whispering literal sweet nothings in his ear to deal with. </p><p>"Listen honey, if you're not gonna participate, the least you can do for waking me from my beauty sleep for the least exciting serial killer phone call I've ever gotten is telling me where you live, so I can creep into your room while you sleep and castrate you with my teeth, and then throwing your cock and balls in dear ol' Aunt Patty's backyard down the street. Since you clearly don't know how to play with it in a satisfactory manner, I'm sure Mr. Snuffles will make <i>excellent</i> use out of it as his next chew toy."  </p><p>Still nothing. </p><p>He smirked, swaying his hip. Just because Asshole McGee clearly didn't feel like playing, that didn't mean that Remus couldn't have some fun of his own. </p><p>"<i>Oooor</i>, if you want, I can crush them to pasty mush by stomping them with those sexy heels you love oh so much. Oh, but I just <i>can't decide</i> which ones! Be a doll and help a poor boy out, will you? Should I wear the black stilettos, <i>you know the ones</i>, or my new pair of wedges? They're neon green, are covered in spikes and <i>they glow in the dark~</i>"</p><p>Still fucking nothing. </p><p>He stomach rumbled in impatience and he stifled a moan. Goddammit, he was horny <i>and</i> hungry and wanted some fucking Totino's pizza rolls!</p><p>Oh wait, he ate all of them last night. </p><p>Goddammit, now he has to ask Janus to go pick up some fucking Totino's pizza rolls! </p><p>With a heavy sigh, he rolled his eyes. </p><p>His pale finger lazily traced circles in the air, just hovering over the end call button. The ghost caller still wasn't talking, but if Remus strained his ears, he could just barely make out the sounds of a familiar commercial playing faintly in the background. </p><p>Oh, Disney Channel! How fucking cute. </p><p>Remus sighed. </p><p>"Listen buddy. It's clear you either have the wrong number or you're fucking with me, and let me tell you something about fucking with me, bucko: I absolutely <i>will</i> fuck you back. I will make your sorry arse sore for years and haunt you in both your nightmares <i>and</i> your wet dreams. And frankly, now you're pissing me <i>the fuck off</i>. It's three in the god-for-fucking-saken morning and I'm hungry and I have a bloody boner right now, which normally wouldn't bother me, but I sleep in the buff and my stupidly sexy little flatmate will have an absolute fucking heart attack if he catches me rummaging through the fridge in nothing but a sheet again, ya understand? So, while this has been a <i>riveting conversation</i> so far, this can really end in only two ways: me hanging up or you helping a mate out." </p><p>He chuckled to himself, drumming his fingers against the cracks in the wood of the stand. </p><p>"But I'm a patient man. I'll give you a chance. Here, I'll even be nice and prompt you! What are you wear–"</p><p>"Remus." </p><p>He froze. </p><p>No.</p><p>No.</p><p>No. </p><p>No <i>fucking</i> way, no. </p><p>No. No. No. No. N-</p><p>"It's Roman." </p><p>This can't be real, this can't be <i>fucking</i> real! It's just...it's just a nightmare. The worst kind of nightmare that left him feeling all kinds of things he <i>did not want to feel and this wasn't happening, this wasn't fucking happening, nononononon–</i></p><p>"I, uh...I know it's been...a <i>while</i>...but, um...listen, I need a fa–"</p><p>Remus slammed his phone down on the end call button. </p><p>His hand shook and his phone plopped back down onto the dark chipped wood with a dull <i>thud</i> that he barely heard, not with how fucking loud his heart was beating. He could feel the blood <i>pulsing</i> in his fucking ears, oh god, oh <i>god...</i></p><p>When that phone lit up yet again, with that same damn number, Remus switched it to silent and watched it ring and ring. He watched as his inbox received it's first voice message. He watched the first text arrive, soon followed by another and another and another...</p><p>
  <tt><b>remus</b>
</tt></p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <b></b>
</p><p>
  <b></b>
</p><p>
  <tt>
    <b>remus answer me</b>
  </tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt>
    <b>please</b>
  </tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt>
    <b>rem please pick up</b>
  </tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt>
    <b>i need to talk to you</b>
  </tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt>
    <b>this is important</b>
  </tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt>
    <b>remus</b>
  </tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt>
    <b>god damn it remus PLEASE</b>
  </tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt>
    <b>ANSWER</b>
  </tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt>
    <b>THE</b>
  </tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt>
    <b>FUCKING</b>
  </tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt>
    <b>PHONE</b>
  </tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt>
    <b>PLEASE</b>
  </tt>
</p><p>
  <tt>
    <b>REMUS</b>
  </tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p>
  <tt></tt>
</p><p><tt>
  <b>im sorry</b></tt>
</p><p>Remus turned his phone off. He held down on that little button until his finger went numb. He watched in fucking glee as the screen died and all he saw was his face reflected dimly on that little black screen. </p><p>He closed his eyes, took deep breaths, thought of all the funniest fucking things he could possibly think of until he was smiling a toothy grin that would make a shark blush modestly. </p><p>
  <i>Everything's fine</i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>Everything's fine</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Everything's fine</i>
</p><p><i>Everything's fucking fine</i> </p><p>He screamed into his pillow until he passed out, the tears on his face having dried hours ago.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'd like to thank all of the kind people who left kudos, commented, bookmarked, etc. last chapter! Your feedback is so greatly appreciated, I honestly don't even know how to express my love for all of you in way that isn't just incoherent screeching. So, once again, THANK YOU!</p><p>My current schedule for updates on this story is every Friday at 12-1:00 pm ET, so keep your eyes peeled. The only reason this chapter is a day late is because I had to help my sister move yesterday, a process which took literally the <i>whole fucking day</i> and drained me both physically and mentally (yay). Every other chapter should generally be on time, unless something unexpected comes up.</p><p>And with that totally graceful transition, I shall proceed to shamelessly plug my <a href="https://cheseyre.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a>!</p><p>*game show music plays*</p><p>Yes, indeed, my Tumblr, where I will be posting art, updates, and maybe the occasional shitpost here and there! And you lovely peeps can send in asks, keep yourselves up to date, or just stop by to say 'hi' <strike>I'm not lonely what are you even talking about heh heh</strike> </p><p>It's a good time, I swear. </p><p>Until next time, my lovelies!<br/>Ches ❤️</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. since we're feeling so anesthetized in our comfort zone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Virgil's a messy, sleep deprived zombie who makes bad decisions and his dumb 4 a.m. thoughts are of no help whatsoever, shocker.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tw for cursing, alcohol mention, sex mention, blood mention, implied self harm, brief self harm/suicidal thoughts, and a minor (poorly) flirting with an adult character. </p><p>Chapter title comes from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0W9jyRm7xHo">"The Bitter End"</a> by Placebo.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The buzzing in his ears crackled and popped, and his head felt full of helium—ready to float right off of his shoulders to parts unknown—as he listlessly watched the people below him dance in a flurry of blurred shapes, smudged black dots and sparks of neon. </p><p>Virgil's mind started to wander just as aimlessly as he was. Jumbled, tangled thoughts wriggled fruitlessly in their little throbbing knot, fraying strands of bare minimum coherency occasionally slipping through. He leaned over the railing, fighting down the fit of nausea bubbling in the pit of his stomach, and simply stared down below at all the people. </p><p>His hand, tightly gripping the stinging cold metal bar, slick with sweat, shook. </p><p>Up on the balcony, Virgil found himself to be...disappointed. </p><p>He knew that was the wrong feeling to get from this position; he <i>should</i> be reeling from the raw adrenaline coursing through his veins, experiencing such a euphoric high from watching all the little people below him. He <i>should</i> be like Jack on the Titanic, screaming that he was the king of the world and blissfully unaware of just how soon his would come crashing down. He was <i>supposed</i> to feel like this impressive shadow, looming over the unsuspecting patrons like some big bad villain. </p><p>He <i>wanted</i> to feel like he was a little bird, ready for flight. He was <i>ready</i> for the adrenaline, the euphoria, the superiority that came from being up high and observing. Instead, his vision swam, his hands shook, and he was afraid of <i>falling</i>. </p><p>That's where his mind started wandering to other places. Despite his attempts, he had successfully filtered out the words <i>fucking water</i> from his immediate thoughts, replaced by the screaming of what-if after what-if. </p><p>What if he fell? Would the crowd stand back and watch? Would they part for him? Would someone try to save him? Would anyone even care to stop him? Where's Remy? What if he fell? <i>What if he fell? Fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall...</i></p><p>Neon static buzzed in his eyes and he groaned, tearing himself away from the railing to clutch his head and regret everything. His knees bucked and he grabbed blindly at a pillar for support, the burning stench of vodka that had seeped through his jacket firmly grounding him in this poor, hazy excuse for reality. </p><p>He smacked his lips and nearly groaned at how dry they were. </p><p>
  <i>Right, right. Fucking water...</i>
</p><p>When he had first stomped up those metal stairs, the <i>CLUNK-CLUNK-CLUNK</i> still ringing fresh in his ears, he did not see the man who had spilled his drink on him earlier. </p><p>That did little to calm Virgil's nerves because that more than likely meant that he was out on the roof. Despite his earlier intentions of cursing the well-dressed stranger out, a cursory glance at his phone told him it was going on four o'clock in the morning and he had firmly decided that no, getting into fights with strangers over what could've very well been a genuine accident was not, in fact, a good way to <i>avoid</i> drawing attention to himself. </p><p>That, and, there was something genuinely... enticing about the guy. Maybe it was how he was dressed, the preciseness of his words spoken with a dull deep monotone, his blank face, or his eyes. Remy was right, the man <i>was</i> attractive, but there were other reasons, more confusing ones, as to why he set <i>something</i> off in Virgil that lingered as a dull ache. </p><p>That's why he chose to linger, to distract himself from going out onto the roof for as long as possible. How much time had passed was a blur, it could've been five minutes, ten, twenty, thirty, an hour... </p><p>Virgil shook his head and swayed. </p><p>Didn't matter. He was thirsty, bored, and alone—three big no-no's in Remy's book when it came to clubbing. </p><p>It wasn't <i>his</i> fault, he didn't think it was, he was just <i>tired</i>. He felt like a zombie, dragging his feet along with each heavy, monotonous step—senses numb and tingling yet significantly heightened and eyelids heavy but never closing. There were definitely tears brimming in his stupid eyes, that burned and throbbed with each ticking second—<i>ticktockticktockticktock</i>—and yet as seconds ticked away to minutes and minutes ticked away to an hour and an hour ticked away to hours, those tears never fell but instead, frustratingly, stayed stuck to his lashes like globs of school glue. </p><p>Virgil wanted to scream, but screaming was <i>loud</i> and his head was <i>hot</i> and it pounded a dull rhythmic ache that taunted him as much as the passing stares and barely contained judgments of strangers. </p><p>He ran his hand down his hot face sloppily, fingers pressing down under his eyes and dragging the swollen skin down to his cheekbones. His eyes watered and he racked his brain for thoughts, thoughts, thoughts...</p><p>What did he want to do again? </p><p>He wanted to sleep. </p><p>No, he couldn't do that, that's not it. </p><p>He wanted to scream. </p><p>No, no, too loud. Would attract attention, he didn't want attention. </p><p>He wanted to escape. </p><p>Well, then why wasn't he? </p><p>He wanted to...</p><p><strike>Not be here.</strike> </p><p>
  <strike>Not be here. </strike>
</p><p>
  <strike>Not be here. </strike>
</p><p>He wanted some fucking water. </p><p>Groaning, he forced himself to walk through the balcony, to <i>that</i> door. </p><p>Each step he took was like trying to wallow through wet cement and as the world tilted and swayed, he was sure he was stumbling but he also wasn't quite so sure, because in barely a second, the world would be upright—blurred and bathed in orange neon, but upright. So, he stumbled through that fucking door that led to the fucking roof, barely sparing a passing glance at the couple who were having barely concealed sex in the shadows just a few feet away, and a gust of cold air smacked him in the face. </p><p>He sighed, happily. </p><p>The night air was crisp, cool, and freeing. It was untainted by the crowds of people out there, dancing to muffled music and chatting happily among themselves, and the roaring fire pit placed smack center gave the night this warm, orange glow—a rare moment where that dreaded colour actually calmed Virgil's nerves instead of heightening them. </p><p>The atmosphere out there was in stark contrast to what lay waiting inside; shadows were less stark and suffocating, the colours less harsh and blinding, and the people looked more like <i>people</i> than silhouettes that blurred together into blobs. If Virgil looked hard enough, he could make out distinct features from certain people in the crowd: a woman wearing a black tank top and jean shorts with a pink streak in her hair, a man in a stained Nirvana t-shirt, a couple dancing together who both had glasses and the woman a few inches taller than the man, among others. </p><p>A sudden chill flew through the air and ran its long and crooked fingers down Virgil's spine. He shivered, keenly aware of the sweat stains under his pits and the still damp patch on his shoulder that reeked of vodka. With an unsteady hand, he unzipped and shrugged off his jacket, tying it tightly around his waist. A relived gasp escaped his chapped lips as the cool air greeted his overheated muscles and he took the moment to stretch a bit, wincing as he felt his cramped joints <i>pop</i>. Once he felt significantly loosened up, he double-checked his knot—still tight—and made a beeline for the bar that lay waiting all the way across the nearly endless roof. </p><p>He plopped down on the first seat he saw, it looked pretty crowded tonight, and greeted the bartender, a pretty young woman named Tara, with a nod and the ghost of a smile. </p><p>"Hey kid," she called out over the shouts of various drink orders and vulgar cat-calls. "The usual?" </p><p>"Yes, please." Virgil was almost shocked at just how raspy his voice was. </p><p>Tara seemed to have noticed this as well and chuckled. </p><p>"Sounds like you need it. Alright; give me a minute and I'll get with ya." </p><p>Virgil nodded. Tara went to go tend to other, more elaborate orders from rowdier clients and he shoved his headphones in his ears and allowed himself to slump over. </p><p>He could feel the cloud inside his head, the pesky one that pushed mercilessly at his temples and sinuses throughout the long, long night, dissipate and he relished in the always fleeting freedom to breathe <i>without</i> his nose stinging or head throbbing. </p><p>Remy could shame him all he wanted for being "boring". Taste was subjective and while his friend enjoyed basking in the no-strings-attached anonymity that the bright lights and tightly packed space offered down below, Virgil felt more at home in the wide space, drowned out music with casual chatter, and chilling altitude. Granted, if he could, he would make all, save for a select few, people disappear, but hey, beggars can't be choosers. </p><p>He tapped his finger against polished wood as Get Scared and Placebo whispered sweet nothings into his ear. Tara set his glass of water down beside that hand, the <i>clink</i> much softer than before. He wriggled the lemon off the rim of the glass and set it down on the thin white napkin beneath it, watching with keen interest as it quickly dampened. </p><p>Sweet relief flooded down his throat as he took his first, glorious sip in a long while. Virgil greedily drank and in less than a minute, he was sucking air through the straw at the bottom of a glass. Tara, who was busying herself with a Bronx Cocktail, did a double-take. </p><p>"I just gave you that, kid!" </p><p>Virgil shrugged. </p><p>Tara rolled her eyes. </p><p>"That'll be $1.50, you lil' shit." </p><p>Virgil raised an eyebrow at this. </p><p>"I thought water was on the house, Tare?" </p><p>She rolled her eyes. </p><p>"Yeah, well, with how much you drink it, you might as well start paying for it."</p><p>Virgil smiled apologetically. </p><p>Tara eventually got to work on his second glass. Virgil laid his head down and closed his eyes, allowing the night air and his music to filter out his jumbled thoughts. </p><p>It was 4:37 am. </p><p>School would be starting in three hours, just three measly hours. At 7:15 am Tuesday, he would be Virgil Sanders, seventeen, starting his first day of the longest year of his life. </p><p>Senior fucking year. </p><p>It had taken <i>seventeen bloody years</i> for him to get this far and time seemed to have slowed to an aching crawl while simultaneously going way too fast for him to process everything that was happening. After all the aliases and changing schools, from wearing the proud colours of the Minnesota Cornwall Dodgers to the patriotic stripes of Winston Middle School in Virginia, he just had <i>one more year</i> to get through this and he would be...<i>free</i>. </p><p>He could do <i>whatever he wanted</i>. </p><p>The thought terrified him more than anything. </p><p>He <i>wanted</i> this and yet he <i>didn't</i>. He wanted to <i>stop running</i>, to slow down and enjoy the scenery, but that nagging voice of reason was always around to remind him that <i>it'll never last, it'll never fucking last</i>. </p><p>He wanted to be a child again, blissfully unaware of the world outside of his own and believing that mummy had all the answers. But that same child would overhear mummy screaming in the locked bathroom of motels, punching the mirror and downing a bottle of liquor. That same child would help mummy clean the bloody cuts on her hands as she sobbed apologies to him. That same child would nod along quietly as mummy lied <i>again and again and again</i>. </p><p>Virgil sighed. </p><p>He loved Janus, he truly did. If anything bad ever happened to him, Virgil would surely raise hell. But, at the same time...</p><p>God, what <i>did</i> he want to do? </p><p>He's heard the saying over and over again, that once he "grew up, he could be anything he wanted!" Well, growing up was hot on his heels, fucking December, and he had <i>no bloody clue where to start</i>. He knew what was <i>expected</i> of him: go to university, find himself a stable career, and start a family. He knew the lies, the fake plans of all his other selves: Anthony Dufresne wanted to be a musician; Jax Baxter, an architect; Jenson Langley, a poet. </p><p>Virgil Sanders, nothing. </p><p>With a heavy sigh, he reached into his pocket and pulled out that crumpled paper towel. He smoothed it out on the tabletop the best he could. He managed successfully fish a barely functional pen out of his pocket shortly after and got to work. </p><p>There were times where his dumb, nagging thoughts were too much and he had to get them out of his system somehow. So, he turned to writing and drawing. The folds and wrinkles on the rubbish turned into landscapes of an unknown destination, the cogs and gears in his parietal lobe shaking off their cobwebs as they started to form <i>some</i> kind of picture. </p><p>What it was, he had no bloody clue. He just drew lines and scribbles, random words that he was sure meant <i>something</i> in his foggy mind once that turned into incoherent scribbles of gibberish. His hand shook, it <i>always</i> shook, and at times he bared the tip of the pen down so hard, it tore the paper towel and left pools of smeared ink in its wake. It was messy and nonsensical; it was his masterpiece. Remus would be proud. </p><p>"That seems like it would be a poor substitute for paper." </p><p>Virgil flinched violently at the sudden loud noise next to him. It took him a second to realize he was being addressed and he groggily turned his head. Discoloured eyes met black and he took a long shaky sip of water to try loosen up the right lump that formed in his throat. </p><p>"Hmmm," he hummed, suddenly <i>really</i> interested in the all the little cracks and chips in the wood. </p><p>The well-dressed man looked him up and down, and Virgil could feel the man's dark eyes drink in every little fault and crevice in his appearance. The gaze wasn't predatory, it was one of boredom and raw study, but Virgil could <i>feel it</i> seeping into his bones and that unnerved him more than anything else. </p><p>"I came to apologise," the man continued, in a matter–of–fact tone, "for the earlier incident. I did not intend to spill my drink on you. I was pushed in your direction as you were standing up." </p><p>"Hm."</p><p>"I left to go retrieve a napkin for you to lightly dab out the stain," the man showed him the object in question, neatly folded in his hand, "but you had disappeared when I returned. I asked your friend and he said that you'd be up here." </p><p>"Of <i>course</i> he did." </p><p>"Well, one method I'd recommend to get rid of that stain now is to wash it with the highest heat setting for that material. I believe that your jacket is made out of cotton, correct? So around 130° F should be ideal." </p><p>The man paused, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Virgil stared blankly at him, unsure of how to respond. </p><p>"...Thanks." </p><p>The man nodded, a smile on his lips so small and brief, Virgil wondered if he had imagined it.  Glasses man cleared his throat and motioned to the empty seat next to the teen with a sharp nod. </p><p>"May I sit down?" </p><p>Virgil shrugged.  </p><p>The man took this as invitation enough and gently sat down next to him. Virgil felt himself flush as the sudden influx of body heat creeping up beside him. He drummed his fingers on the table. </p><p>"You seem unhappy." </p><p>Virgil almost laughed at the other man's bluntness. Almost. </p><p>"Oh really?" </p><p>He turned and looked the man dead in the eye. Those dark eyes had a faint amber glow in them due to the fire and it made him look borderline robotic. His face was completely deadpan, oozing an impressive amount of raw seriousness Virgil could applaud him for managing to keep a straight face. </p><p>"My apologies if that came off as too direct," the man said a little too quickly and, for the briefest moment, Virgil saw a flicker of...some kind of emotion spark in those eyes. Panic? Worry? Fear? Pity? But just as it appeared, it was gone and the man was back to being his straight-laced self. </p><p>Virgil shrugged. </p><p>"It's alright, mate. I'm not gonna bite your head off or anything. I'm too bloody tired to do anything like that." </p><p>He took a sip of water and rubbed at his eyes in vain. </p><p>"I don't know, really. Am I unhappy? I kind of just feel like I'm...here, you know? Like I'm <i>physically</i> here, I exist and all, but I'm not...<i>here</i>, in the head and all. And it's weird, really, because it's not like I didn't <i>want</i> to come here or like I was dragged here. I'm came for fun, to escape, and it's just not...<i>working</i>. <i>I'm</i> not working–" he sputtered off and paused, taking a few few small breaths, and waved his hand. </p><p>"Ugh, nevermind, I'm tired and stupid. Ignore me." </p><p>He took another long sip of his water, the glass already half empty. Keeping an eye on the man, he could hear the gears turning in his head as he processed everything that he had just said. </p><p>"If you don't mind me asking," he started and Virgil tensed, "you said you wanted to 'escape'? Escape from what, exactly?" </p><p>Virgil's foggy mind of tired bullshit cursed and spat at himself for letting that slip. He combed through every possible response he could give, from ignoring the question completely to making up some bullshit. </p><p>However, it appeared his voice of reason was out for lunch because his ultimate decision was to spill his guts out to a complete stranger, and he couldn't even blame it on the alcohol. </p><p>"I don't know," he scoffed, throwing his hands up in exasperation, "fucking <i>everything</i>, I guess. I'm just waiting for this to <i>end</i>, like it always does, abruptly and I'm so bloody <i>tired</i>. It <i>doesn't</i> last, it <i>never</i> lasts, and I-I don't know! I'm supposed to be in school in a few fucking hours and I'm expected to know what I'm doing with my life and I <i>don't</i>! And time just <i>keeps moving on, funny how it goes so fucking fast when you're dreading something,</i> and I just feel <i>left behind</i>. And it's selfish of me, but I want to blame it on my dad, because–because of him, I've spent so much of my life running without even <i>who</i> or <i>what</i> I'm running from. A-And I'm not even sure if I can trust a word out of his mouth because he <i>lies, he lies so much, </i>and over the <i>pettiest shit,</i> too. I don't know if he's scared or he can't help, but, just...ugh!" </p><p>He only just barely stopped himself from slamming his forehead into the table, his voice of reason having returned with a fierce vengeance. </p><p>"I'm...I'm a mess, oh my God, I'm a fucking idiot. I just...I just told you all that, oh shit. Oh <i>fuck, why did I do that? </i>Why did I–UGH!" </p><p>He stood up, accidentally knocked over his drink in the process, and cursed.</p><p>"Fuck! God, I-I swear I'm <i>not </i>drunk! I'm just," he sighed and started walking away, "I'm just an idiot. Fuck, just–just forget we even had this conversation. Thank you for...the stain removal tip, I guess?" </p><p>"It's alright," the man said suddenly, his low voice sending a spark of pure voltage down Virgil's spine and made him stop dead in his tracks. It was oddly calming, in spite of his monotone delivery. </p><p>"No, no it's not! I," Virgil plopped back down in his seat and stared down at his hands laying limply in his lap. </p><p>"I shouldn't have told you all that. It was inappropriate and–" </p><p>"Hey," he looked up and stared into those black eyes, "it's alright. I won't pressure you to explain yourself, it's obvious that was something you needed to get off your chest. Breathe. It's alright. I won't judge you." </p><p>Virgil nodded numbly and tried to follow the breathing instructions his old therapist taught him long ago. </p><p>
  <i>Breathe in for four seconds, hold for eight, out for seven. In for four, hold for eight, out for seven. In for four, hold for eight, out for seven...</i>
</p><p>Once he had significantly calmed down, he opened his eyes. The man was still there, sipping a clear drink he must have ordered during his little freak-out, and was watching him closely from the corner of his eye. </p><p>"I–" Virgil started. </p><p>"Don't." The man held a hand up and Virgil's mouth slammed shut. </p><p>"Don't apologise. It's done, it's in the past. Don't dwell on it." </p><p>Virgil's face heated up and he stared at his lap again. Nodding in agreement, he tried to focus his mind on other things: like the lyrics to the song that was still blasting in his ears–<i>shit, was it impolite to speak with headphones on? Shitshitshit</i>. "The Bitter End" by Placebo was starting to play and he nervously hummed along to the opening cords. He thought about food, started to mentally list foods in alphabetical order—another little trick from his therapist—and he cursed when his stomach started rumbling. Damn, he really should've ate dinner last night. </p><p>"What about you?" He asked, finally looking up. The man's brow furrowed and Virgil immediately paled, hoping to god he wasn't asking a stupid or invasive question. </p><p>"Pardon?" The man asked, turning to face him, and Virgil found himself under that damn piercing gaze yet again. </p><p>He cleared his throat and tried to play off his nerves, nonchalantly shrugging. </p><p>"Well, I just told you my shitty little sob story," he gestured vaguely. The man didn't seem too amused. </p><p> "What about you? Why are you here?" </p><p>The man looked confused, in his odd little deadpan way. </p><p>"I don't understand what you mean." </p><p>Virgil shrugged. </p><p>"I mean, we're all here for a reason, right? People who come out to a place like this are usually looking for a good time or they want to forget about how shitty their lives are through a little meaningless booze and maybe a good shag." </p><p>He stopped to order another water from Tara, who rolled her eyes but complied regardless. Once that was over and done with, he spun back around to face the man and smirked like the little shit he was. </p><p>"What's your sob story, specs?" </p><p>The man didn't seem to have much of a reaction at Virgil's prodding. He simply set his glass down and cleared his throat, his movements calculated and his face borderline unreadable. </p><p>"It's not much of a "sob story", as you put it. It's rather mundane." </p><p>Virgil shrugged, taking a long swig out of his new glass. </p><p>"Fuck it. If it'll get me to stop thinking about how much I want some bloody chips by now, it's good enough for me." </p><p>This seemed to have been the right thing to say, as the man took a deep breath and a moment to smooth out his shirt before he started talking. </p><p>"I grew up in Massachusetts to two loving Catholic parents. I had no siblings. I graduated top of my class as the valedictorian. I attended a prestigious university where I earned a master's in science, a bachelor's in psychology, and later on, I earned my degree in teaching secondary education. I now have a job teaching at a nearby high school that I have to be there for in a couple of hours." </p><p> He then proceeded to take a long, precise sip from his glass. Once he was done, he cleared his throat and turned to face Virgil yet again, with that same damn blank face. </p><p>"I believe that adequately answers your question?" </p><p>Virgil blinked, trying to process all the information that was dished out to him in literally the span of thirty seconds. </p><p>"Wow," he said at long last, "you were right. That was boring." </p><p>He swore he saw the corner of the man's lips twitch, ever so slightly. </p><p>"Still," he continued, keeping his eyes firmly on the man as he took another sip of water, "doesn't explain why you're here. You said you teach?" </p><p>"Yes." </p><p>"High school?" </p><p>"Yes." </p><p>"Hmm," Virgil tapped his fingers against the table, searching for any sliver of emotion in the guy's voice or mannerisms. Nothing. </p><p>"What subject?" </p><p>"Honors chemistry." </p><p>"Interesting. And it's your first day?" </p><p>"I just said that, did I not?" </p><p>"Just making sure," Virgil held up his eyes in mock surrender, careful to play his cards just right. He could sense the slight edge in the other's voice and knew he was getting somewhere. Something was off about this man and if there was one good thing about being raised by Janus, it's that Virgil knew how to spot bullshit fairly quickly. </p><p>"Is that why you're here, teach?" He leaned forward and stared dead set into those eyes, watching the red reflected in them flicker. </p><p>"You nervous?" </p><p>The man answered immediately, far too quickly for it to simply be a natural reaction. He was getting defensive. </p><p>"Of course not. It's what I've been preparing for my whole life. What would I have to be nervous about?" </p><p>"Well, for something that you've been 'preparing for your whole life', you don't sound particularly excited." </p><p>There was a spark, a brief glimmer of <i>something</i>. What was it? But then, in a flash, he was back to his default settings. </p><p>"What would I have to be excited about? It's a job, nothing more. A means to earn a living in a field I studied immensely and shall earn my money, time, and patience's worth in obtaining my degree." </p><p>Virgil shrugged. </p><p>"I mean, I dunno, it sounds pretty lame to have a job that you're not really that invested in." </p><p>The man only stared at him. </p><p>Shit, did he go too far? </p><p>"I can assure you, I'm <i>not</i> nervous." </p><p><i>And yet,</i> Virgil nearly muttered, <i>here we fucking are...</i>

</p><p>There was a moment of awkward silence between the two, one that probably lasted only a minute but felt like an hour. The man calmly drank his drink in silence while Virgil curled up in his seat, took small sips of water, and eagerly checked his phone. </p><p>4:46. </p><p>4:46. </p><p>4:46. </p><p>4:47. </p><p>"If I may," Virgil jumped when that deep voice boomed so close to his ear. He looked up to find the man staring at him, a ghost of a smile on his pale lips. </p><p>"I'd like to ask you a question of my own, nothing too invasive, I'm just awfully curious." </p><p>Fuck it. </p><p>"Shoot." </p><p>"Your accent," the man squinted, as if he were digging through his brain for the precise information. </p><p>"You're English, correct?" </p><p>"Aye. Cockney." </p><p>"Interesting." </p><p>The man looked him over again, practically studying him. Virgil tried to contain the flush in his cheeks. </p><p>"I've never met anyone from the East End before." </p><p>Virgil shrugged, still tapping his fingers softly to the beat, and he hummed. </p><p>"I mean, it's not exactly common, especially here. Besides, been living in the US for a while, so it's not really as noticeable as it could be. It will probably become more apparent once I start screaming about how I, I dunno, killed your mum after shagging her and took a piss on your cat's grave, you know?" </p><p>The man's lips twitched. Almost, not quite, a smirk.</p><p>"Well, that would be incorrect considering my mother is indeed alive and I never owned a cat; I am allergic." </p><p>Virgil did laugh at that, a throaty little cackle that boomed like thunder to his sleep deprived mind. The man looked hilariously unamused. </p><p>"Are you always this literal when flirting with people, or am I one of the lucky ones?" </p><p>The man blinked and even that movement seemed to be deliberately calculated. </p><p>"I'm afraid you're mistaken. I am not flirting." </p><p>"Why'd you spill your drink on me then?" </p><p>"I told you before. That was an accident." </p><p>Virgil smirked, taking a long sip of his water. </p><p>"Sure, teach." </p><p>"That's not my name." </p><p>"Oh really? Enlighten me then." </p><p>The man held out his hand, firm and proper. Virgil could count the cluster of freckles scattered across the pale skin and met the man's eyes yet again. The fire had died down somewhat and the red-eyed glow gave way to reveal a deep dark shade of indigo that was just barely noticeable if one squinted. </p><p>"Hello. My name is Logan Le Croft. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." </p><p>Virgil smirked, gripped that still hand in his own shaky one, and shook it, firm. </p><p>"Virgil Sanders," he grinned, staring into pools of flickering blues. </p><p>In just two measly hours, he would be Virgil Sanders, seventeen, and starting his first day of school. </p><p>Now, he was Virgil Sanders, still seventeen but very keenly aware that he looked <i>much</i> older, and was desperate enough to feel <i>something</i>, common sense and morality be damned for <i>once</i>, that nothing else really bloody mattered, now did it? </p><p>Fuck it, the night was still young. </p><p>"Wanna dance, Logan Le Croft?"</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*breathes in*<br/>I fucking hated writing this chapter. </p><p>I rewrote this thing, like, four times and each time, I would find more and more little issues that I'd either have to completely scrap or rearrange. I'll tell you, three drafts ago, this chapter looked and went in a completely different direction. </p><p>Add in the fact that my chronic insomnia has been thoroughly kicking my arse, alongside my good ol' friends stress and self-doubt, this week and you have the perfect bloody formula for a piece that's about 90% pure projection/venting on my part and the other 10% that's, like, the actual story. </p><p>Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. Any and all feedback is very much appreciated, and stay safe. I'm going to go drink some water, eat Goldfish, and take, like, a twelve hour long nap. Oh, and the next update will actually be on time—I swear. </p><p>Until next week, my lovelies.<br/>Ches ❤️</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. this is the start of how it all ever ends</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The long night ends, Virgil's first day of hell begins, and Remus deals with his problems like any mature and responsible adult would: by completely ignoring them.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tw for cursing (it should be obvious at this point, everyone in this will swear like bloody sailors), brief nudity, description of sex/sexual acts, Remus's, erm, graphic and potentially nauseating "fun facts", dark humour/a very brief suicide joke, and graphic description of making out/<i>heavily</i> implied sex between a minor and adult. </p><p>Chapter title comes from "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YYKD-xf0JOk">Yellow Flicker Beat</a>" by Lorde.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dawn was hot on his heels as Virgil walked home, the exact opposite of a spring in his step and a smudged frown. The streaks of orange, pink, and red that clashed so heavily against bright blue mocked him, taunted him to hurry along home and hurry he did—with one boot untied, hair a tangled mess, and makeup smudged. </p><p>It was 6:39 AM and he was now Virgil Sanders, high school senior. </p><p>Hoo-fucking-ray. </p><p>He rolled his eyes at the sun, the streets, the clock, and that familiar block of flats that awaited him just around the corner. Hugging himself, he trudged along, dragging his heels all the way. The window was still open just a crack, as it should be, and he made his way up the fire escape. Every <i>CLANG</i> that accompanied each heavy step still ringing in his ears as he edged his fingers under the crack and wiggled his way into the room. Immediately, he was bombarded with the smell of bacon and the welcoming sight of Remus's bare arse. </p><p>"Well," the mad twatter drawled out as he spun around and drank in the teen's disheveled appearance. "Look what the gutter puked up. Bout time. I was about to start searching the dumpster for ya." </p><p>Virgil rolled his eyes and started digging through a nearby box. He hadn't bothered to unpack anything besides the bare essentials. </p><p>"Y'know Remus, it really wouldn't kill you to at least put on some pants every once in a while. It's traumatizing enough that you and my dad used to fuck; I'm <i>really</i> tired of the first thing I see every morning being your pasty arse." </p><p>Remus scoffed and waved him away dismissively.</p><p>A quick glance over his shoulder showed Virgil that he was painting another one of his masterpieces: a mess of horrifying images mashed together with an eye-bleeding colour palette and glitter. This one had no cohesion whatsoever; it was as if he was literally throwing anything that could stick onto the canvas on it and smearing it until it resembled a literal, sparkly shit stain. It was so shamelessly, undeniably Remus that not even a master artist could hope to recreate the shear amount of graphic detail and texture necessary to get that precise shade of brown, or the delicate and deliberate patterns the silvery streaks of glitter made gliding along each curve and edge. If the subject matter was of <i>literally</i> anything else, the average person would be impressed—maybe even amazed. </p><p>Luckily for Remus, Virgil and Janus weren't exactly what one would call "average".</p><p>Virgil fished through the box and eventually dug out a pair of skinny jeans and a tank top. </p><p>He made a mental note to thank Janus for enrolling him in a non-uniform school. His last few months of junior year, at a school in Texas, this wasn't the case. For a moment, he flashed back to that time, sitting in a stuffy classroom, sweating in thick polo shirts and cargo pants and constantly tugging at his tie to keep it from choking him. He shuddered at the thought. </p><p>He began to change—he didn't mind changing in the same room as Remus; the man may be a sex addict, but even he was not perverted enough to try anything with a teenager. Remus, meanwhile, was in his own little world and for the next few minutes, would spit out random disturbing facts on the fly.</p><p>"Hey, did you know that when stressed, a rabbit may eat its own young?" </p><p>"Wow. Thank you Remus, for that lovely image." </p><p>Said man only shrugged and began to sing "The Circle of Life" under his breath. Virgil smoothed out the tank top and chucked his old, sweat-stained and alcohol-smelling clothes into the laundry basket. He dragged himself over to the vanity and started digging the Remus's makeup drawer, intent on covering up the swollen skin under his eyes. </p><p>He heard Remus clear his throat behind him. Looking up in the mirror, he saw the man watching him with an annoyed glare, a hand on his hip, and the only thing preserving that little bit of modesty being a stained, raggedy, glitter-smeared smock. Virgil smirked as he began applying some mascara. </p><p>"Excuse me, what the fuck do you think you're doing?" </p><p>"Uh, putting on makeup?" </p><p>"Yeah, MY makeup." </p><p>Virgil scoffed and opened up one of the eye shadow palettes. Most of the black was gone, big surprise, but he could make do. </p><p>"So?" </p><p>"'So'? Bitch, I know you've got at least <i>some</i> eye shadow tucked away in those fucking boxes. Stay out of my shit!" </p><p>"Eh, but it'll take <i>way too long</i> for me to have to dig through my shit to get to that fucking tiny, cheap-arse, five dollar knockoff that I got in my Christmas stocking three bloody years ago. This is...<i>easier.</i>" </p><p>"You're not even applying it correctly!" Remus cried out, aghast when he finally got a good look at Virgil's face. </p><p>"It's all smeared under your eyes and bloody <i>chunky!</i> Did you dig the brush into the foundation again? Some of it's even on your <i>cheek!</i>" </p><p>Virgil scoffed, smirking as he started to brush his hair with Remus's metal comb.  He winced when he hit a particularly tough knot and started digging his finger through it as he talked. </p><p>"So fucking what? It's part of my look." </p><p>"'Your <i>look'?!</i> Oh honey, you <i>look</i> like a day-old raccoon corpse that was just fished out of the river and shat on." </p><p>"Yeah, well <i>you</i> look like one of Tim Burton's cheap arse sleep paralysis demons that was tarred, feathered, and dipped in Skittles and fresh vomit." </p><p>"<i>Cheap?!</i> Excuse <i>you?!</i> Oh, okay, well when you decide to start paying the bills, feel free to let me know. Because if it wasn't for this expensive arse, you two bitches would be probably be living your best lives out in low rent motels instead of here—where the roach infestations are slightly more tolerable." </p><p>Virgil scoffed and walked back over to the box, digging out another jacket. Until he got the stain out of the other one, it'd have to do. It was one of his favourites: a black cotton hoodie with purple patches sewn into it. Remus made it for him last year, having decided to try and expand his sewing skills and Virgil couldn't help but appreciate the craftsmanship. Plus, it had a slightly higher collar than the other one—perfect for covering the bruise that was starting to bloom starkly against his pale throat. </p><p>"Yes, but at least in motels, we wouldn't have to worry about the kitchen nearly being set on fire every time someone wants to make a bloody bagel." </p><p>"Oh, you accidentally leave a fork in the toaster <i>one fucking time</i> and <i>this</i> is what happens!" </p><p>"Well, yeah because most people have the common sense not to put <i>fucking forks</i> in toasters. You, on the other hand—"</p><p>Virgil looked him over, arching a brow and smirking. </p><p>"Thank god, you're kinda pretty." </p><p>Remus opened his mouth to retort, but a sudden and loud clearing of throat made both of them jump. </p><p>"Oh girls, stop fighting. You're both pretty," Janus smirked, leaning against the doorway. </p><p>He was wearing a beige dress shirt—the sleeves rolled up to the elbows—and black dress trousers, although the classiness of this simple outfit was lost in the raggedy smock he was using as a poor man's apron, his obvious bedhead, and the small grease stain on his cheek. Not that Remus seemed to care, Virgil observed. He was staring at his father like a dog would at a juicy treat and if it wasn't for his own bare minimum modestly, his obvious boner would be even more distracting. </p><p>Gross. </p><p>"Remus," Janus spoke in a low, sultry purr, well aware of the effect he had on the other man. "Put some clothes on. I need you to walk Virgil down to the bus stop this morning. I still need to get ready." </p><p>Virgil rolled his eyes while Remus ran to his closet so fast, he probably left skid marks on the floor. </p><p>"Dad, I don't need—" </p><p>"And Virgil," Janus sung, cutting him off. Virgil huffed and crossed his arms. </p><p>"I know you didn't eat last night. Don't argue with me," he said sharply when Virgil opened his mouth. "If I don't see <i>at least</i> three pieces of the bacon and half of those bloody eggs that I spent a good half hour slaving over a stove making for you down your gullet before you leave today, you can kiss those little posters you love so much goodbye." </p><p>Virgil scoffed and smirked, rolling his eyes. Janus watched this with obvious amusement. </p><p>"Oh, please. You've been saying that trite since I was thirteen. When are you gonna learn that empty threat you keep saying so proudly doesn't work on me anymore?" </p><p>Janus smirked, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway. There was a sliver of mischief swimming in those narrow discoloured eyes that was so faint, you'd have to squint to see it. </p><p>"Oh, <i>really?</i> I think you should check your boxes again sweetie because, well, I seem to recall you had a Coraline poster you were <i>oh so very much fond of</i> that, oh, I could've sworn I <i>didn't</i> see when I was packing up your shit back in Pennsylvania." </p><p>Virgil scoffed and smirked at him, narrowing his eyes. </p><p>"Pfft! Yeah right..." </p><p>Janus didn't say anything. He just stared at the teen with a dead serious expression, his lips curled in a devious crooked smile and his eyes locked in an unflinching gaze. </p><p>Virgil felt himself start to pale. He desperately tried searching for any obvious tells of a bluff, of his father pulling his leg. But damn it, the man was harder to read than an untranslated version of Beowulf most of the time, so that was a meaningless effort. </p><p>"R-right?" </p><p>Janus only coyly arched a brow, somehow managing to keep every other muscle in his face completely still. </p><p>Virgil cursed and spun around to dig through his unmarked boxes, but Janus finally laughed and beckoned him over with a flick of the wrist. </p><p>"Oh, never mind that, honey." </p><p>He walked over to Remus's vanity and snatched up the mascara that was still left out. </p><p>"Hey!" Came a shrill squeak buried deeply in an overflowing cupboard. </p><p>"Borrowing this," Janus said with a wink before turning to address Virgil, who was already digging through one of his boxes. </p><p>"Come on, let's get some food in you before you have to get going. Don't want to be late on your first day, now do we?" </p><p>"Kinda," Virgil grumbled under his breath, dragging his feet as he began shuffling towards the door. </p><p>Janus stopped sharply and glared at him from over his shoulder. </p><p>"What was that?" </p><p>"Nothing!" The teen replied a little too hastily to ignore, and he would rather die than admit to the obvious way his voice cracked. </p><p>Janus smirked and hummed, sauntering into the kitchen and muttering, "Yeah, that's what I thought."  </p><p>Once he was certain his father was out of earshot, he sighed and cursed. Well, this was it—no backing out now. The slamming of doors made him jump and he turned to see Remus throwing on a white faux fur coat over his questionable ensemble of a black sparkly crop top, leather shorts, neon green fishnets, one black and grey striped finger-less glove and a black lace choker. </p><p>Virgil stared at him with an arched brow. </p><p>Remus rolled his eyes and stomped over to his vanity, grumbling as he snatched up his precious eye shadow and began applying it in a way that was even messier than Virgil had just a few minutes ago. </p><p>"You're wearing all <i>black</i> in fucking 90° weather, ya little shit. You don't get to fucking judge me." </p><p>Virgil rolled his eyes and stepped outside. </p><p>He followed the welcoming smells of bacon, eggs, and possibly toast straight to the kitchen. Awaiting him on that stained and cracked marble island was a paper plate that, indeed, had a slice of golden toast, scrambled eggs, and three strips of bacon. Janus had also taken the time to make him a glass of chocolate milk and had gotten the ketchup bottle out, placing it next to the plate. </p><p>Virgil's stomach growled and for a brief moment, any hard feelings towards his father vanished at he climbed into the wobbly stool and started to dig in. </p><p>For all his faults, at least he was a <i>damn good</i> cook. </p><p>Remus soon joined him, piling eggs and strips of bacon onto a plate. He began mashing and stabbing at them with a fork, graphically cutting the strips into little chunks that he swirled around in his eggs with a worrying amount of glee. </p><p>Janus raised an eyebrow at this as he emerged from the toilet, shrugging on a black pinstriped waistcoat with grey accents. </p><p>"You know, if you just asked, I would've cut that up for you." </p><p>Remus shook his head as noisily chewed. </p><p>"Nah," he dragged out dismissively, still chewing his food as he talked. "S'more fun this way." </p><p>Janus tried not to look disgusted as Remus started to take swigs directly from the orange juice carton. <i>Tried</i> being the key word. </p><p>"Whatever you say," he said with a forced smile, plucking a piece of toast off of a nearby plate and daintily spreading peanut butter over it with a butter knife. </p><p>There was a brief moment of silence between the three, where the only noise was the crunch of food and this lopsided ticking of a broken owl clock Remus had mutilated to resemble both Taylor Swift <i>and</i> Jeffrey Dahmer...somehow. </p><p>"Hey Jay," Remus piped up suddenly. Virgil tried to hide his amusement at his father's obviously disgusted reaction to the little bits of chewed up bacon that flew out the harlot's mouth as he talked; these two used to go at it like bloody rabbits, all of Remus's nifty little kinks included, and yet <i>this</i> is where he drew the line. Fucking hysterical. </p><p>"I need to borrow your laptop." </p><p>Janus's brow furrowed. </p><p>"Why?" </p><p>"Well," Remus finally paused to swallow, "I have a couple of clients I'm meeting up with today and I need to reach with one of them to reschedule. I accidentally double-booked 'em, and I don't think this guy's into threesomes, sadly." </p><p>Janus took a bite of his toast and mulled this over, a flurry of confusion and other emotions dancing across his face as he thought it over. </p><p>"I suppose...but wouldn't it be easier to contact him using your phone instea—" </p><p>"My phone's dead!" Remus cut him off, practically yelling, a little too quickly to be natural. Both Janus and Virgil flinched at the sudden loudness and as the two stared at him, Remus suddenly got flustered and started stabbing at his eggs. </p><p>"I, uh, I forgot to charge it last night," he muttered sheepishly, green eyes darting around suspiciously, as his fork scraped loudly against his mostly empty plate. </p><p>Janus stared at him, his eyes narrowed, and as a sudden realization hit him, Virgil opened his mouth to speak up—only to promptly slam it shut when Remus glared at him murderously from the corner of his twitching eye, holding his fork up in a silent but thorough warning. </p><p>Janus sighed. </p><p>"I suppose," he muttered, rubbing at his eyes. Remus let out a little victory squeal and snatched the ketchup away from Virgil, who shrunk away in disgust as the man started to pour a stream of red right down his throat. </p><p>"But," Janus continued, holding his finger up as if he were about to scold a child, "do be quick. I need it for today." </p><p>"You need your laptop for a job interview?" Virgil piped up, resting his chin in his hand with his elbow propped up on the hard marble. </p><p>Janus gave him the look, a stern and unflinching glare that told him to keep his mouth shut and don't ask questions or <i>I swear to God, you'll fucking regret it</i>. </p><p>"Yes."</p><p>That was soon followed by another bout of slightly more uncomfortable silence, Virgil took large bites of his toast and tried to ignore the bead of sweat rolling down his neck. Remus, meanwhile, literally licked his plate clean while Janus watched them both with an unreadable expression, taking small and slow bites of his own food. </p><p>Virgil stared at Remus, watching as he began to pick at his plate, ripping off little chunks around the rim with a shaky and fumbling hand. </p><p>"Remus, your phone isn't—" </p><p>"Hey! Did you guys know the FDA actually allows there to be at least one rat hair in every 100 grams of peanut butter before it's considered 'defective'? So, really, with the average amount of 28.3 grams of peanut butter per sandwich, you could be digesting some poor rat's pewbs and aren't even aware of it." </p><p>Janus dropped his toast on his plate with a loud <i>PLOP</i>, his eyes tightly shut and his hands shaking. It was then Virgil could confidently state that he saw a man go through all the five stages of grief in the span of about three seconds. </p><p>Janus stood up, cleared his throat, smiled and started walking back to the toilet. </p><p>"Thank you for that, hm, <i>interesting</i> fun fact, Remus. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go brush my teeth...with <i>bleach</i>."  </p><p>"Love ya!" Remus called out as the door slammed shut and locked. He glanced over at Virgil, sighed, and started his plate-picking back up with notable disinterest. </p><p>However, Virgil couldn't shake the nagging voice in the back of his head that reminded him that Remus's phone wasn't dead. </p><p>He saw it on the nightstand just a ten minutes ago, oddly silent, but still plugged in and obviously charged. </p><p><br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <hr/>
</div><br/><p>Virgil closely watched Remus from the corner of his eye as the man continued to talk all the way to the bus stop. </p><p> Now this wasn't too surprising, the man loved to talk everyone's, including his own, ears off and was enough of a little shit to ruin people's day with the most random nausea-inducing factoid delivered in the most nonchalant manner possible. No, in his five or so years of knowing the guy, Virgil would like to say he was used Remus's cursed knowledge and antics—what made him do a double take was just how <i>fast</i> Remus seemed to be taking today. And how quickly he was willing to interrupt conversations whenever anyone brought up anything regarding his phone. It wasn't his usual form of butting into conversations at inappropriate moments either; each time he spat out some random, mildly disturbing fact or thought seemed deliberate, as if he was forcing himself to say this stuff instead of letting it come out naturally. </p><p>It felt...<i>off</i>. </p><p>Still Remus continued to ignore his questions, avoided his concerned glances, and seemed desperate to talk about literally anything else besides his blatantly obvious lie at breakfast, picking at his coat and letting his mouth run on autopilot. </p><p>Virgil, for his part, tried to ignore the alarm bells going off in his head by putting on his music and letting his mind wander. If Remus was lying, Janus would get the truth out of him somehow—he was like a bloodhound when it came to that shit. </p><p>He tried to think of firm and calloused hands on his numb hips and the haze of neon and friction that enveloped him only an hour ago. However, his bag weighed down his back and as much as he turned his volume up, he couldn't block out either Remus's ever flapping gob-talker nor the excessive chatter of other, much more excited kids around him. </p><p>There weren't too many people there, about seven or so, not including him. A few looked about his age, but there were  obviously more freshman and sophomores that lived in this area. He almost pitied them in a way; he remembered his first day of freshman year, when he was so excited to start this supposed "best years of his life". Yet, by the end of that milestone, he had transferred to three schools in three different counties, and each time he would eat lunch alone while any friends he managed to stay in touch with quickly moved on with their lives. </p><p>He tried not to stare, particularly at a small group of older kids who were chatting and laughing happily amongst themselves in their own little circle. He tried to ignore the stares and obvious sideways glances he got, although that was hard being next to the glittery neon sign that was Remus. Really, the man had no shame whatsoever and while Virgil usually could admire him for his bluntness and open flamboyance, now was once of those times he was keenly aware that he was standing next to and living with a man who made furniture out of literal junk and was planning on shagging at <i>least</i> three men today for probably only five dollars a blow. </p><p>He tried to ignore the way his cheeks burned, or how that pesky inner critic shouted insults at the both of them, begging him to cut his losses and <i>leave</i>. </p><p>Soon, although not soon enough for Virgil's taste, that dinky yellow hell on wheels was coming around the corner and stopped in front of him with a ear splitting screech. His nose wrinkled in disgust as the stench of gasoline hit him square in the face and he lagged behind, watching as every other kid made their way onto the school bus. His heart pumped in rhythm to their loud, stomping steps. </p><p>Soon, far too soon, he was the only one left. He took a step forward and hesitated, glancing over at Remus, who shooed him away with a laugh and smile that Virgil would almost call fond. The driver, a crochety old bag, was glaring at him and looked like she was five seconds away from leaving his arse to choke on exhaust fumes. </p><p>Virgil closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and walked up to the bus. Each step he took felt heavier and heavier and by the time he reached the door, he was sure he was going to black out. Floaters danced in his vision, mocking him in their carefree little twirls and glides. </p><p>"Have a <i>GREAT</i> day, kid!" Remus yelled at the top of his lungs and Virgil flinched so hard, his skeleton might as well have popped out of his skin. He could <i>feel</i> the shit-eating grin the twat was wearing as he continued to yell.</p><p>"Don't get stalked and murdered today, okay? Your dad would kill me if I let that happen! Heh, heh, get it? 'Kill'?" </p><p>Virgil glared at the rat man from over his shoulder and threw him an particularly obscene finger gesture before stomping onto the bus, his face so hot he knew it was at least some shade of red. Even with his music up on max, he still heard every step he took loud and clear. </p><p><i>THUMP.</i> </p><p>
  <i>THUMP.</i>
</p><p><i>THUMP.</i> </p><p>
  <i>THUMP.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i></i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i></i>
  </i>
</p><p>He squeezed his way down the aisle, searching desperately for the first empty seat he came across. It was no good up front and Virgil was forced to maneuvered through the bags, legs, pieces of paper, foods and drinks, and a mysterious stain he was <i>not</i> touching to save his life that crept up on him on his perilous journey to through the aisle. He was soon able to find an empty seat near the back, the cushion slightly torn but durable. </p><p>He tripped over a particularly muscular leg of an older student who was built like a fucking <i>wrestler</i> on the way there, and he buried his face in his hood and tried desperately to block out the annoyed shout, the deep voiced cursing, and the obnoxious giggles and "oohs" other students let out. His face heating up, he dove into the seat, shrugged off his bag, and hugged it to his chest like it was his life support. </p><p>His hot cheek presses against the foggy, musty window, Virgil tried <i>so hard<i> to curl up in his seat and make himself invisible. </i></i></p><p>
  <i>
    <i></i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i></i>
  </i>
</p><p>It was no use in trying, really. He didn't have the protection that the night, the harsh shadows of the nightclub, and the presence of strangers offered him only a few measly hours ago. Now, he had a name, a face, and while these people were strangers now, their faces and their laughs would become <i>achingly</i> familiar all too soon. There was really no escaping it. </p><p>He was now Virgil Sanders. </p><p><i>Fuck.</i> </p><p>The route continued for another ten minutes and as time agonizingly ticked on—ticktockticktockticktock—and more and more eager students flooded the bus—<i>THUMPTHUMPTHUMP</i>—Virgil became all the more desperate to escape reality. </p><p>He watched as trees and houses and cars and streetlights brushed past his window, the crack above letting in a small breeze that was little relief to the stuffy atmosphere. He tried to focus on the lyrics and the beats pounding in his ears. He picked at a tear in the back of the seat in front of him, his eyes glazing over. </p><p>He leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and thought of firm and calloused hands on his numb hips and the haze of neon and friction that enveloped him only an hour ago. Of how he wasn't <i>entirely</i> sure how he found himself in that situation, grinding against a stranger he only met a good ten minutes ago when he was usually <i>so</i> cautious, but he just <i>didn't care</i>. How the rest of a world was a blur and <i>didn't fucking matter</i> as large dark, and curious eyes bore into him, studying him and he <i>didn't fucking care</i>. How <i>could</i> he care, with such a piercing gaze drinking in every away of his hips or every sliver of pale skin peeking out beneath his layers of clothes. Or how for <i>just</i> a minute, sixty <i>measly</i> seconds, the lights went bright and he could stare clearly into those dark blue eyes. How he watched the briefest emotion flicker in those dark blue eyes, <i>curiosity and amazement</i>, as they studied his own: one brown and the other slightly more green. How the man, <i><b>Logan</b></i>, gasped out <i>two little words</i> before Virgil dove in, his chapped lips meeting soft rosy ones and the world was again a haze with sparks of teeth and tongues, hands tearing at clothes that were both too <i>tight</i> and too <i>loose</i>, hair, skin, <i>fucking <b>anything</b></i>, the friction bloody <i>scorching</i> as his moans bounced off the walls of the stall he was shoved so <i>roughly</i> inside of and teeth digging <i>oh so mercilessly</i> into his jugular, nipping and feasting ruthlessly at his thudding pulse. And oh, those <i>two little words</i>, rasped out in such <i>awe</i> that it played in Virgil's hazy mind on loop. </p><p>
  <i>Your eyes...</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Your eyes your eyes your eyes your eyes your eyes your ey—</i>
</p><p>"Um, excuse me?" </p><p>Virgil jumped as his eyes snapped open, him reflexively curling up into a ball and casting an uncertain glare at the person who had lightly tapped him on the shoulder. </p><p>They looked away, biting their pierced lip and casting their eyes down on the floor. It wasn't hard to tell that they were obviously uncomfortable, the way they were hugging their arms close to their chest and shifting their weight from foot to foot. They were muttering something under their breath and Virgil popped out an earbud and turned down his volume so he could hear them more clearly. </p><p>"I'm sorry, what?" </p><p>"Can I, uh, sit with...you?" Dark doe eyes glanced up at him briefly before avoiding his gaze entirety. </p><p>"Everything else's already taken..." </p><p>Virgil's mind short-circuited for a moment and despite every collective voice in his head screaming <i>no, no, no</i>, he only gave a small nod and shuffled to give this other person some room. They took this half-arsed gesture as a yes and awkwardly sat down on the very edge of the seat, their long black skirt billowing out beneath them and they tapped their foot against the floor in a rhythm all too familiar to Virgil. </p><p>The bus continued on route for another five minutes and the seatmates didn't even <i>look</i> at each other. The kid beside him kept their gaze firmly locked on their phone, fingers frantically typing away every few seconds or so, and their face becoming more and more visibly distraught. Virgil tried not to stare and bit his lip, pressing himself tightly against his little corner, despite the way his back ached and his lungs screamed. </p><p>Had it been a few years ago, he probably would've attempted some pathetic small talk. The light gray and black striped coat this kid was wearing looked pretty cool, so he probably would've said something along the lines of "I like your coat" and the kid probably would've nodded, maybe say 'thanks' or some shit like that, and then it would go being right back to uncomfortable until one of them dared to cast out another line. </p><p>However, any drive to actually socialize with other people willingly was pretty much thrown out the window about a year ago. Now, he just wanted to get through his senior year with his sanity relatively intact and he had no intention on making friends until he walked across that damned stage and was finally <i>fucking free</i>. </p><p>There was a small problem with that plan. </p><p>He already fucked it up. </p><p>See, Virgil wasn't stupid. He didn't forget things easily, and if he did, he could easily blame it on the alcohol or the insomnia or all the lies getting mixed up in his head. He certainly <i>didn't</i> forget faces or names, and no matter how much he tried to deny or ignore it, he <i>knew</i> what he was doing mere hours ago. He bloody <i>knew</i>, but he just said fuck it, he didn't <i>fucking care</i>, and now it was too late, <i><b>far</b> too late</i>, to turn back. </p><p>He memorized his schedule two whole weeks before this dreaded day, just so he wouldn't forget those specific <i>fucking</i> names. </p><p><b><tt>First period/Homeroom: Parham, J. — H. English 12</tt></b><br/>
<b><tt>Second period: Norman L. — Calculus I</tt></b><br/>
<b><tt>Third period: Bacchus, M. — Intro to 3D Design and Sculpture</tt></b><br/>
<b><tt>Fourth period: Holmes, L — Intro to Psychology</tt></b><br/>
<b><tt>Fifth period: Sault, R. — French II</tt></b><br/>
<b><tt>Sixth period: Ruiz, S. — Government</tt></b><br/>
<b><tt>Seventh period: Le Croft, L. — H. Chemistry</tt></b><br/>
<b><tt>Counsellor: Picani, E.</tt></b></p><p>As the bus pulled into its lot and parked with a shuddering jolt, in those few, few, <i>few</i> minutes Virgil had left to reflect upon what he had done, he came to that dawning, damning, and utterly horrifying realization. </p><p>He just made probably the worst mistake of his entire life. </p><p>He just risked <i>everything:</i> his future, his safety, his anonymity, <i>Janus, Remus, his <b>life</b>...</i>

</p><p>And he <i>fucking <b>loved</b> it</i>, every single <i>damn</i> minute of it. </p><p>With a heavy sigh, he slung his bag on his shoulder, it weighing on his shoulders like a Gothic scarlet letter, and stepped off the bus. It was time to face the long, long, <i>long</i> day ahead of him.</p><p>His first day and he was already going to hell.</p><p>He chuckled.</p><p>He was so <i>fucked</i>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>To all the people who guessed the complete fucking obvious last chapter, (what was that, like, everyone?) congratulations! If I had a single talented bone in my body, I'd make you all cookies. </p><p>Remember when I said in chapter one when I said Virgil wouldn't be a part of any sexual pairings throughout the story? </p><p>Yeah, I lied...partially.  </p><p>I want to make it clear that this interaction between Logan and Virgil WAS a mistake and it is NOT to be idealized/romanticized in any way, shape, or form, PERIOD. Logan had the excuse that he believed Virgil was older than he was and Virgil had the excuse of not being old enough to think through and consider the consequences of his impulsive actions (as the prefrontal cortex, the area of the brain that carries out executive function, including: considering the consequences of actions, decision-making, and moderating social behaviour, isn't fully developed until around the age of 25). However, EXCUSE is the key word here. Now that there is a clear and established imbalance of power between these two, any and all attempts to portray them in a romantic or sexual manner will be portrayed negatively outside of Virgil's, frankly, skewered and unreliable perspective. I want to make that VERY clear. </p><p>Okay. </p><p>Moving onto a slightly less, erm, controversial subject, Remus's flat primarily consists of furniture/objects he made himself; a sort of DIY funhouse, if you will. For anyone who's ever watched iCarly (which is a fucking classic, fight me), think along the lines of Spencer's bizarre sculptures, only made by the embodiment of every dark/crude/I-don't-even-fucking-know thought you've ever had that talks about butts as much as I self-deprecate. </p><p>Yeah. </p><p>Let's just say, the "Taylor Dahmer" clock, as I so loving christened it while writing this, is the <i>least</i> disturbing thing in this flat. </p><p>There is a dick chair. </p><p>No, I will not elaborate. </p><p>Anyway, this is getting long, so until next time, my lovelies!<br/>Ches ❤️</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>